


The Sunset Gem

by EllariSigintarg



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cultural Exploration, Don't Look Too Close at Geography Please, F/M, Family of Choice, Female Bilbo Baggins, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Hobbits More Involved in the Outside World, Magic Hobbits, May/December Romance, Mix of Book and Movie and LotRO and Our Crazy Imaginations, No one ring, Overly Fond of the Company and its Wonderful Eclectic Parts, Slow Burn, The Line of Durin Endures Forever, Timeline? What Timeline?, We Are Not Linguists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-04-19 21:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 69,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14246142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllariSigintarg/pseuds/EllariSigintarg
Summary: Left alone in the world, Biliana Baggins is convinced by her mother’s oldest friend to venture out into the Wild with a troupe of dwarves hunting their lost treasure. Both they and she doubt she’ll be much use, but divining the future has never been a precise art, nor are gems’ true value always known until they have been brought out of the shadows and into the light.





	1. Dinner Guests

**Author's Note:**

> **Authors’ Note:** Welcome! We hope that you enjoy our romp through Tolkien's world. If you recognize it, it’s probably from Tolkien or Peter Jackson. If it’s an non-Tolkienian idea you’ve seen before in fanfiction, feel free to assume it’s a (most likely) subconscious allusion/tribute to the original author. Happy reading! Elle and Rhi

#  Dinner Guests 

There is an old saying in the Shire: it is all very well and good if others underestimate you, but don’t you go underestimating them! It might very well be the oldest saying in the Shire, but there is another --one perhaps even more essential in the life of any Took: be alert when wizards appear. 

Biliana Baggins, daughter of the marvelous Belladonna Took, knew both proverbs perfectly well. She didn’t know how many wizards there were in the world, but she knew Gandalf the Grey. He had been a good friend of her grandfather the Old Took, and of her mother and father besides, and ever since she was a child she had looked forward to each of his unannounced visits, and to the tales and the fireworks that came with him.

Even so, the Grey Pilgrim was the last thing on her mind that late spring morning. The month had been even more than usually rainy, and she was laboring over waterlogged rose bushes, determined that the sensitive plants not suffer any ill effects. Prim wished white roses for her handfasting wreath, after all, and it was only appropriate that the flowers planted by Bungo Baggins’ wife adorn his heir’s wife on her wedding day. 

Thinking over again her cousins’ plans, Billa was quite oblivious to the world beyond her bushes, until a throat was cleared rather loudly. Not ready to abandon her task, she called out, not entirely politely, “Good morning!”

“What do you mean?” a deep and oh so familiar voice, both serious and teasing, asked. "Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?"

Leaping up, Billa ran down the lawn through the front gate, hugging the tall grey figure round the middle. “All of them! Oh, dear, dear Gandalf! How good to see you!” 

“And you, my dear Billa, and you.” He patted her head gently, smiling. “Now, won’t you invite me in? I have much I wish to speak about with you and your father.”

Billa’s smile slipped from her face; her hands quivered for several moments. His own smile fell away, and he waited for her to speak with a weight growing in his heart.

“Father passed away this winter,” she told him finally, voice barely above a whisper. 

Sorrow carved into Gandalf’s face, and his eyes dimmed. 

“When?”

“Four months ago.”

“Ah… my poor Billa…” He shook his head, his hand coming to rest on her shaking shoulders. “I am so sorry, my dear. For your loss, and that I did not come sooner.” He sighed. “Has Drogo taken possession?”

She shook her head. “He and Primula wed at Midsummer. He wishes to have a wife to bring to Bag End.” She managed a small smile. “He says a bachelor isn’t suitable for Bag End. ‘Made for a wife, and won’t go without’, he said.”

“And you…”

“I go to Tuckborough. Drogo and Prim have offered, but…” she trailed off, shrugging her shoulders in an artfully careless way, and her face was stonily calm. “Fortinbras has promised me a place; he and Lalia have their hands full with little Ferumbras, you know.” Billa turned back to her rose bushes, running her fingers through the soil, frowning mildly at its composition. “Another set of capable hands would prove a blessing, not a burden. And I would hate to intrude on Drogo and Primula so.”

Gandalf watched the little hobbit woman he was so fond of carefully. Finally, he asked, “And if you had another option?”

Her brow furrowed. “Another? Where… what do you mean?”

“I came here seeking someone to go on an adventure,” he intoned, his voice thick with an impressive gravity and import. 

She stared, before letting loose an almost hysterical laugh, bending over with the force of it, and it was some time before she could gather her wits enough to respond to the wizard.

“An...an adventure?” she gasped, one hand on her newly aching ribs. “Me? Oh, Gandalf, you know you ought to be speaking to a Took.”

He scowled at her. “I believe I am.”

Her merriment faded, and she sighed. “I’m a Baggins, Gandalf. For all my mother’s blood, I am useful, not fierce.”

The wizard stepped back from her, his posture straightening, narrowing his eyes on her fidgeting form. When he spoke again, it was in a low, purposeful voice.

You are both, and both shall be needed. Yes, you will do very well indeed.” The wizard seemed satisfied with himself, his dour air lifting. “The perfect choice, I must say. I think I will outdo myself this time.”

“Gandalf, what on earth --”

“It is decided, then. It will be very good for you, and rather amusing for me. Expect us this evening; I do hope you have a good dinner prepared!” With a cheerful smile, he walked away, whistling, leaving a stunned hobbit lass behind him. 

“Dinner--- what… Gandalf!” Billa cried, her stupor broken as he turned down the lane. She hurried after. “Gandalf, WAIT! What do you mean? Who do you mean, ‘us’?” She raced to the hedge-lined turn, but the dratted wizard was nowhere to be seen on the path ahead. Covering her eyes with one hand, Billa muttered every curse she knew in Westron, Hobbitish, or Sindarin, but there was nothing else to be done. With a long-suffering sigh, she retreated for her smial to grab her shopping basket. Her larder was well-stocked, but company always requires fresh meat. She had heard good things of young Tolman Cotton’s fish today, and she knew Odovacar Bolger’s son was still in town, selling some of his father’s excellent pork…

*****

It was a good thing Billa could not bear to be idle, even in her grief. Fingers long used to lace or music making -- two activities her battered heart still could not easily endure -- had found solace in baking and canning and cooking these last four months, leaving her pantry filled with jams, pickles, preserves, smoked and salted meats and fish, cheeses, breads, cakes, and pies. Much had been given away to well-wishers, but there had been none this month, save for dear Drogo and Prim, and the shelves were now overloaded to the point of groaning. All she had to do, then, to prepare for company was to wipe down her dining table, bring up a barrel each of cherry wine and summer ale, and prepare the beautiful fish and pork haunches she had purchased. 

When the meat was seasoned and roasted to her satisfaction, she looked around. She could hardly set the table, not knowing the number of guests to expect: to set too few or too many would both be horrifically insulting. Resigned to waiting, she ran her hands back over her pinned-back hair, smoothing the few distresses there, and looked down at her dress. She ought to change; this was a work dress, after all, and the hems were frayed and the apron grey with age, hardly appropriate for a dinner party… but was this a dinner party? It was dinner, to be sure, but the gathering hardly seemed social. Gandalf, she imagined, would be wearing his normal grey robes, but what of the other? Or others. (Drat it, Gandalf had not even told her if he intended to appear with one or many!) To dress too fine would be to look down her nose at them, but if they were dressed well and she were not…

A solid knock at the door interrupted her fretting. Too late to worry about clothing now -- she couldn’t leave a guest waiting! So to the door she went and opened it, automatically raising her head for Gandalf or a Ranger’s eyeline.

She aimed too high. Blushing, she lowered her gaze until she found herself meeting the eyes of (blessed Yavanna!) a dwarf. At least, Billa thought it was a dwarf. She has seen some before -- they passed from time to time through the Shire as they went from Ered Luin to Bree and beyond--but never so close! Yet, with that build, not much taller than the biggest of hobbits but so much broader, with a coarse beard (and, goodness, were those axes strapped to his back?), what else could he be? 

“Dwalin, at your service.” He bowed, and she blinked, rushing to curtsey.

“Ah, Biliana Baggins, at yours and your family’s.” She gestured awkwardly behind her, and opened the door enough for him to enter. “Please, come in.”

He did so, and looked around. “Where is he?”

“Gandalf? He has not--”

“No. Your… husband? Brother? Father? Mr. Baggins.”

Billa’s eyebrows rose to meet her hairline. “My father returned to the earth four months past, and I have no brother or husband.” She smoothed her hands down her apron and straightened her spine to meet Dwalin’s gaze calmly. “The only Mr. Baggins is my cousin Drogo, who has not yet taken possession of Bag End.”

The dwarf scowled, at what she knew not. But he was a guest, and a guest must be fed, so softening her expression to a welcoming smile, she gestured down the hall to the dining room.

“Please, Master Dwalin, follow me. I’ve prepared a large meal, only Gandalf neglected to tell me how many accompanied him. Do you travel alone with the wizard, or…”

Dwalin gave her a stunned look that quickly softened into sympathy, and grunted, “Rolled you over like the rest of us, huh?”

Billa found herself smiling genuinely, and even suppressing the urge to giggle. “You have no idea.”

He shook his head. “There’ll be thirteen of us, not counting you or the wizard.”

“Fifteen…! Well,” she sighed, “it will be a tight fit, but needs must.” She led him to the table and bade him take a seat, quickly setting first his place and then the remaining fourteen ( _fourteen_!). His eyes were wide as he took in the spread, and Billa found herself growing nervous again.

“There’s more in the pantry, or I could still run to market, if there’s not enough.” She pressed her lips together anxiously, considering her options. “Most stalls will be closed, but Drover’s avoiding his wife, so he should be--”

“It’s fine, lass.” He swallowed deeply. “It’s… it looks great.”

Billa beamed, relieved. “Truly? Thank goodness. Oh, eat up! No point in wasting away waiting for your tardy friends, is there?”

He snorted, and reached for a roll. The doorbell rang.

“Oh! Be back in a moment!”

At the door was another dwarf, this one with a snow-white beard that split halfway down and swooped into funny flicks at the bottom. He gave Billa a merry grin as he bowed.

“Balin, at your service.”

She gave a quick curtsey. “Biliana Baggins, at yours. Please, come in.” She opened the door widely and held out her arm for his red cloak.

“Oh, thank you my dear -- Brother!” He chuckled loudly and held out his arms for the big one, Dwalin. They embraced with more violence than even tween Tooks, striking their foreheads together in a most concerning manner, but the deep and abiding affection was obvious.

“Come along, brother,” Dwalin pulled Balin back towards the dining room. “The lass’s put together a fine spread for us.”

Billa would have followed them, but the bell rang again. This time, it was two dwarves, young looking even to her ignorant eyes, one fair and one dark, both handsome, and with horribly muddy boots.

“Fili” said the fair.

“And Kili” said the other.

“At your service” they finished together with synchronized bows. She raised an eyebrow at the brothers (for what else could they be?), but her smile was soft and genuine.

“Come in, lads. Only, wipe your boots!” 

The dark haired one aimed straight for Billa’s mother’s glory box, and Billa restrained the urge to box his ears. “Not on that! The scraper by the door will do nicely, I suspect. I’d thank you not to ruin my mother’s rugs.”

The boys grinned at her as they followed her instructions before bounding into the house.

“Is your mother joining us for dinner?” the dark one wondered as he set down his pack and bow under a side table.

“What does she think of your brother signing on with us?” the fair asked, eagerly scanning the smial.

Again, Billa’s brows crept upward. “I have no brother,” she repeated mildly. “The only Baggins here is myself.”

The lads shared a confused glance, but Kili was quickly distracted by heavy footsteps. “Mr Dwalin!”

Fili paused, taking a long moment to look over Biliana. “Have we misstepped, mistress?” he asked. “Is this not where Tharkûn intended for us to arrive?”

Billa smiled, guessing easily whom he referred to, though her expression felt a bit forced. . “Given that Masters Balin and Dwalin have already arrived, and Gandalf himself has visited this morning, I believe you have come to the right place, Master Fili.”

He bowed once, smiling. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Baggins.”

Billa beamed. “At your service, Master Fili. Please, go and eat.”

Fili was warmly embraced by Dwalin, the two dwarrow pounding each other on the back, and settled in next to Balin, the two of them speaking between bites of food.

The dwarrow fell to eating the spread Billa had prepared, and Balin caught Billa’s eye, thanking her with a lifted glass. Beyond that brief civility, their manners were atrocious, worse than a drunken Brandybuck’s, but yet another ring at the bell distracted Billa once again.

This time it was not one or two dwarves who darkened her doorstep, but a veritable mob. Eight dwarves tumbled into her entryway, groaning and protesting at each other in a cacophonic mix of Westron and a rough tongue Billa didn’t know. And if that was not vexing enough, Gandalf appeared in her doorframe, his bushy eyebrows twitching in amusement at the mass of dwarves slowly separating from the pile and rushing towards the smell of food after perfunctory bows to the mistress of the house, muttered names and “at your services” tumbling in their wake. 

“Billa, dear, how are you this evening?”

She opened her mouth twice, but she could not bring herself to speak the words she truly wished to shout at the wizard. Finally, she bit out, “I have guests to feed. Come, _please_ , sit down.”

The dwarves did not quiet after reaching the food. Beer was spilt, her pantry raided, food thrown, insults traded, and, by Spring Itself, was that dwarf _walking_ on her table? Despite her best efforts and all her father’s training, Billa could feel her good humor fading rapidly in the face of so many loud guests, coming on such short notice. She could say nothing to the dwarves, of course, but she vowed to speak her mind to Gandalf as soon as she got him by himself.

On and on the festivities went, until Billa feared time was not progressing at all, but rather trapping her within an eternity of boisterous uninvited guests rampaging through her home, pantry, and sanity. Suddenly, one of the younger looking dwarves, a rather timid redhead, interrupted her breathing exercises to ask, “what should I do with my plate?”

Momentarily overcome at the sudden hope of this night coming to an end, Billa failed to respond quickly enough. Instead, Fili snatched the plate from the other’s hands and tossed it to his brother. 

“Here, we’ll handle it!”

“What… Wait! Please, I can manage! Oh, do be careful!” Why had she ever thought that Fili was well-mannered?She turned to see two dwarves play fighting with her mother’s silver knives. “Don’t -- you’ll blunt them!”

The one with the (rather stupid-looking) hat smirked. “Hear that, lads? She says we’ll _blunt the knives_!” And with that, he began to sing a horrid song, the others quickly joining in, until Billa was inches away from either collapsing in hysterics or throwing said knives at (guests, she must remember, _guests_ ) heads. 

> _Chip the glasses and crack the plates!_  
>  _Blunt the knives and bend the forks!_  
>  _That’s what Mistress Baggins hates--_  
>  _Smash the bottles and burn the corks!_  
>  _Cut the cloth and tread on the fat!_  
>  _Pour the milk on the pantry floor!_  
>  _Leave the bones on the bedroom mat!_  
>  _Splash the wine on every door!_  
>  _Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl;_  
>  _Pound them up with a thumping pole;_  
>  _And when you've finished, if any are whole,_  
>  _Send them down the hall to roll!_  
>  _That's what Mistress Baggins hates!_  
>  _So, carefully! carefully with the plates!_  
> 

As they sung, they passed plates, glasses, and silverware to one another in a haphazard way, from Balin seated at the table to the one with the silly hat, who stood at her kitchen sink. Not allowing her into her own kitchen, they surrounded her, still singing, before ushering her back into the dining room, and showing off the piles of perfectly clean dishes and collapsing into laughter. But Billa did not have time to blister her _guests’_ ears for their insult to her mother’s dishes, for once again a firm knocking came from her smial’s door.

“He is here,” Gandalf said gravely, and it took all her father’s training for Billa not to roll her eyes -- or scream.

She followed the wizard and the suddenly somber troop into her entryway and watched as Gandalf (without so much as a by-your-leave) opened her green door. Her breath caught. It was another dwarf in her doorway, but this one was different. His good looks reminded her of the two young brothers, but while theirs was the promise of youth, his were the full bloom of maturity. He had a quiet grace and authority about him, more than even Grandfather Took had carried, even if his hair was still dark with only a few grey strands woven in. His beard was short, but his hair reached past his shoulders and he wore a dark cape lined with fur.

“Gandalf,” he rumbled, his voice as appealing as his visage. “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. I would not have found it at all, if not for that mark on the door.” He nodded at Dwalin and the other dwarves congregating around the doorway, several of whom bowed.

“Mark?” Billa turned to Gandalf with a sharp look. “You…you defaced my door?” It was silly, she knew, that after all that had happened tonight she would be hurt at this small thing, but still… the door to the home her father had so lovingly made, and had carefully repainted every spring...

“It was one small rune, hardly a defacement!” the wizard defended himself. She opened her mouth, but again was interrupted.

“So this is the hobbit.” The dwarf stepped into the smial, his boots thudding heavily despite the handmade rug at the door. “You did not say it was a female.”

Billa’s chin came right up. “Biliana Baggins, at your service.” For formality’s sake, she sketched a curtsey, though her father would have been appalled at its briefness. “And I am hardly an _it_.”

His quick smile might have been intended as an apology, but it was quickly ruined as he began to circle her. 

“I don’t suppose you have any skill with an axe or sword?”

She shook her head, confused. What need had a hobbit for such bulky, unwieldy…

“Thought not.” He turned to the others. “She looks more like a nursemaid than a burglar.” They began to laugh.

“I beg your pardon!” she snapped over the din. “Insult me again -- in my own home, no less! -- and you will find I need neither axe nor sword to bash in your thick head; my mother’s skillet would do the job well enough!”

Most of the dwarves started, and a moment of silence fell. Billa blushed deeply, torn between mortification at her own words and fury at the new dwarf’s ill-mannered behavior. Dwalin surprised her, breaking the silence by chuckling. The newcomer scowled, but Dwalin remained unimpressed. 

“Come and eat, Thorin. We’ve made sure the lads saved you something.” Looking over at Billa, he smirked. “Don’t mind him, lass. He’s always a bear when he’s hungry.”

Thorin growled, but he followed after Dwalin without another word and Billa, after a few deep breaths, calmed enough to follow. She passed by the dining room, watching out of one eye as Thorin took the seat at the head of the table, and stepped into her kitchen. She ladled the last of the stew into a blue-glazed bowl, and grabbed a spoon sturdy enough to survive a dwarf’s uncaring hand. If she set the bowl down with a little more force than necessary, well, it had been a long night already, and gave no promise of ending soon.

“How was the meeting?” the silver-haired one in purple asked almost as soon as Thorin had his first bite. “Was it well attended?”

“Aye,” Thorin answered, lowering his spoon back to the bowl. “There were envoys of all seven Families.” 

This news seemed to cheer the dwarves, but Dwalin merely asked, “And do they stand by their oaths?”

Thorin sighed, looking down at his meal before meeting his fellow’s eyes. “No.”

Billa watched Dwalin’s eyes dim with sadness and felt a faint prickling of indignation.

“As the Arkenstone’s situation has not changed, neither has their excuse. For the rest, they say this quest is ours, and ours alone. We will have aid if we succeed, but not before,” he continued, his shoulders sagging as if a mountain rested upon them. Billa’s ears twitched in the sudden silence.

“Quest? You’re going on a quest?”

Thorin raised his eyes to her, and would have spoken, had not Gandalf gently asked her to fetch more light. Returning with a candle, she was guided to Thorin’s side by Gandalf, who had claimed the seat next to him, and directed to place the light in the middle of the table. Gandalf pulled out an old, fraying parchment and unfolded it, revealing a rather crude map. Oh, it was not crudely drawn, but it was very light on detail, more evocative than informative. Billa sincerely hoped that Gandalf or one of the dwarves had a better source of information for any journey they might be planning.

“The Lonely Mountain… Erebor,” Gandalf began, and Billa’s eyes fixed on him in wonder. He looked at her and murmured, “You know the tale.” He barely waited for her nod before continuing, “as, of course, all the dwarrow here do. Long has the Worm lingered where he does not belong, hoarded what is not his. It is time to change that.”

“Aye,” rumbled the dwarf with the great red beard. “Óin has read the portents, and he says it is time.”

“Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as it was foretold,” the grey bearded one next to him intoned gravely. “All the signs suggest the same thing: the reign of the Beast is as an end.”

Billa frowned. “Beast? You--”

“That would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, greatest calamity of our age.” The one with the silly hat leaned forward, smirking irreverently, as though hoping to elaborate in grisly detail, but Billa forestalled him.

“Yes, Master… Bofur. As Gandalf said, I know the tale. I just did not realize dragons were mortal, to fade as we do without any wound or sickness.” 

Balin made a sound of disagreement. “We do not know if he is… we have the signs, but how to interpret them, we know not. It might be our, or his, or no one’s actions that end the beast, if he can be ended.”

The youngest-looking, the one who had asked about his plate (Ori, was it?) jumped up began to loudly assert his intended actions, in quite graphic detail, until another, sitting beside him, forced him back into his seat. Others began to shout as well, each trying to outdo the last in imagined violence against the dragon. Their voices grew louder and louder, until Billa longed to cover her ringing ears. A sudden shout from Thorin in a language she knew not silenced them.

“If we have read the signs, do you not think others have as well?” He cast a stern glance over the table, settling the boisterous dwarrow. “Rumors have begun to spread; Smaug has not been seen for nearly sixty years. Eyes look to the East, scheming, asking: does the great wealth of our people lie unprotected? Someone, someday, will weigh the risks and judge the treasure worthy. Do we sit here, committing our deeds with words and not with action? Do we allow others to claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?!” he finished with a cry, rising to his feet, and many of the dwarves roared with approval.

“You forget, the front gate is sealed!” Balin protested against the sudden enthusiasm. “We have no way into that mountain!” he added, bringing his hands down to rest upon the table in with an air of sad finality, not meeting Thorin’s disappointed eyes.

“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true.” All gazes turned to the wizard; Gandalf produced a key with a twisting of his hand, holding it out to Thorin, who took it hesitantly, almost reverently.

“How came you by this?” The dwarf took the key’s solid form in his palm before sliding a suspicious glance at Gandalf from beneath his brows.

“It was given to me, for safekeeping, by your father before Azanulbizar. Now, I give it to you.” Gandalf returned his gaze to the map, ignoring Thorin’s unspoken question. “I sense this map tells more than is visible to the eye at first glance -- your father hinted as much -- but I have not the knowledge to find it. There are others in Middle Earth, I am sure, who can.”

The blonde lad… Fili’s gaze was still fixed on the key. “If there is a key, there must be a door.”

Gandalf nodded, pleased.

“There’s another way in!” The other (Kee? Kili.) cheered. “And if we can find it…”

“Then we can gain access to Erebor without the dragon’s knowledge, and, with the aid of a particularly stealthy person,” the wizard said with a significant look at Billa, “achieve our task without alerting him.” 

Thorin turned his gaze to Billa for the second time since he had entered the dining room. “And is she…?” He trailed off significantly. Billa looked, wide eyed, from him to the wizard several times, her face flushing and mouth narrowing. Her body quivered, and her hands clenched.

“Is _this_ what you were going on about this morning?” She shook her head in disbelief, before turning her gaze back to Thorin. “I see the sense in recruiting a hobbit for stealth, and a Took among hobbits. We are quiet even by our own people’s standards, which I assure you are much higher than the Big Folks, who cannot walk softly on a feather mattress.” (She left off any additional explanations, strangers aren’t entitled to secrets, after all, even if coming with the recommendation of a wizard.) “Even so, I’m not sure anyone can sneak past a dragon to… what, exactly, do you expect me to do?” She spun to question Gandalf, frown firmly in place. “Slay the dragon? I cannot envision Smaug the Golden falling to an assassin’s blade, no matter how crafty.”

Gandalf held up a hand, delaying any more of her words. “No, not slay. You would play more of the role of a burglar than an assassin. No -- now is not the place to speak of why such a role is necessary, but I assure you, it is.”

She rolled her eyes. “Leaving that to the side -- and I wonder how much the years have addled your mind, if stealing from a dragon seems so much more achievable than killing him -- why on Eru’s green Arda would you choose me? I’ve never served with the Bounders, or even been further than Bree! Paladin or …”

“No. It must be you.” 

The dwarves rumbled and Thorin scowled, but Billa drowned them out with a cry of “But, why?!”

Gandalf sent a quelling look around the room, though his gaze softened when he looked upon the little hobbit, so close to tears.

“Perhaps we should speak of this privately, my dear?” he asked her, and at her miserable nod led her away, merrily ignoring the glare the dwarven king directed at his retreating back.

Billa followed the wizard into the sitting room, sitting in her father’s chair while Gandalf claimed his own (dully, she felt some distant pleasure in the gratitude his look conveyed; lugging his big chair out of its storage place had never been her favorite chore). 

They sat in silence for a long moment, Billa staring into the fireplace and studiously ignoring the muffled noises coming from her dining room. Finally, the old wizard sighed.

“Are you truly so desperate to stay in the Shire?”

Billa’s eyes darted to glare at him.

“That isn’t the issue here, and you know it!”

“Do I?” He sat back in his chair. “Isn’t it?” Gandalf pulled out his pipe and pipeweed, but kept his eyes on her. “Do you know what I think when I look at you now?” He pointed with the wooden pipe. “I see that beautiful, headstrong girl who walloped me on the backside with a wooden sword, and I grieve at how hard the years must have been for her if she now doubts herself so much.”

“I don’t --”

Gandalf carried on, ignoring her attempted interjection. “You think Paladin more qualified than you? Paladin, who lost his way in Bindbole Woods at the Old Took’s last birthday? Remind me, who was it who found him?”

Billa sighed. “Me.”

“And when the youngest Brandybuck, five years ago, nearly drowned in the Brandywine, who alone amongst her kin leapt into the water, even though she had never learned to swim herself?” Gandalf’s face was stern, but Billa could see both the sense of his words and the good humor behind him.

“Me,” she conceded, but privately she wished he hadn’t mentioned that one. She still had horrible dreams about those awful moments when water separated her from breathable air.

“And who’s planning and foresight has guaranteed that not one of her father’s tenants has suffered want during these last ten winters, no matter how early or late the frosts come?”

Billa gave a wry smile. “I take your meaning; but planning for Shire winters and saving lost faunts hardly means I’m fit company for a troupe of warrior-dwarves!”

“You might find them not as fierce or hardened as you now imagine, my dear.” His point made, he lit his pipe and drew a long draught. “And regardless, the fact remains that they need _you._ ”

Billa opened her mouth to dispute that, but a look from Gandalf silenced her. This was not Gandalf, her grandfather’s oldest friend, sharing a fantastic tale, but Olórin from the far West, the Grey Wizard intoning some great truth too weighty to be ignored. She remained silent for a long time, lost in thoughts, in forgotten hopes and buried dreams. In the next room, she heard a sound begin to rise. Like humming, but so very, very deep. 

It _was_ humming, she realized, coming from the throats of her dwarven guests. Then came the light sound of the plucking of harp strings. The humming became a melody, and then a song, rising and blending with the harp music, and the wordless vocalizations became a sorrowful lamentation. 

> _Far over the Misty Mountains cold,_  
>  _To dungeons deep and caverns old,_  
>  _We must away, ere break of day,_  
>  _To seek the pale enchanted gold._
> 
> _The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,_  
>  _While hammers fell like ringing bells_  
>  _In places deep, where dark things sleep,_  
>  _In hollow halls beneath the fells._
> 
> _Goblets they carved there for themselves_  
>  _And harps of gold; where no man delves_  
>  _There lay they long, and many a song_  
>  _Was sung unheard by men or elves._  
> 

On and on they sang, about a beloved home filled with the heirlooms crafted by dwarven genius, and the drake that came and slaughtered and stole. Of loss, and hatred, and mourning that would break the heart of softer things.

> _Far over the Misty Mountains cold,_  
>  _To dungeons deep and caverns dim_  
>  _We must away, ere break of day,_  
>  _To win our harps and gold from him!_  
> 

As the final notes died away, Billa stared into Gandalf’s eyes. Finally, she sighed, low and resigned, and turned to the doorway, where Thorin and Balin approached. Looking into the dwarf leader’s deep eyes, she gave her answer.

“Since I was a babe, I have heard many tales of a hobbit’s stealth. We are the smallest race, after all, and stealth is often our best weapon against those who would mean us harm; but I have never heard of anyone, not even one of us, sneaking past a dragon.” She turned back to Gandalf. “But if you truly believe it necessary, old friend, then I will try.”

*****

“But she’s a lass!” Dori cried. “She can’t come with us unaccompanied; it’s hardly proper!”

Miss Biliana raised an eyebrow. “Why not? If you take after the customs of men, then neither, I imagine, was my hosting all of you alone this evening, yet that did not stop you.”

Dori blushed and stammered. Balin cut over his attempts at explaining the distinctions, directing his question at the wizard. “Do you truly believe her the best choice, **Tharkûn**?”

“I do.”

Balin shared a long look with his king, who gave a small, firm jerk of his head. 

“Give her the contract.” The king turned away, seeking Glóin and Óin.

Balin pulled a bulky parchment out of his breast pocket, handing it to the bemused hobbit lass. He offered a few platitudinous explanations, but fell silent as he realized her attention was fixed firmly on the document. Her brow furrowed at moments, and she clearly reread certain passages, mouthing the words as she deciphered their full meaning. Balin found himself giving her an approving smile: in this, at least, their hobbit was no fool. She paused suddenly and shook her head with some energy; thick curls of her auburn hair, already slipping from her braid, fell into her face, framing it much as sideburns would have, if she were a dam. Balin smiled to himself, smothering the twinge in his heart, and with Dwalin at his side turned away, returning to Thorin to ask further of the gathering of the Seven Families, as the small lass continued her study.

They spoke for some time, looking up on occasion to see the hobbit pacing the hallway, nose buried in the contact, muttering at times to herself. Much of Thorin’s news was predictable: Rathin of the Blacklocks spoke against the Quest, despite his niece’s interest in Erebor being restored. His younger brother Rathévi counseled caution, but stood in the end with his king, though his long ill-health made his accompanying Thorin an impossibility. Knútr of the Firebeards was for the expedition, but did not feel obligated to contribute dwarves or supplies to it. The brothers Sveinn and Sweyn of the Broadbeams thought it was madness; Ketil of the Ironfists wished them well. The Stiffbeard Vit thought Thorin had gone mad, even suggesting he might be kept by his lords in protective care until he recovered his wits; Yngvi and Ingvi, cousin lords of the Stonefoots, had barely contained their contempt. Each was railed against in turn, but little was said that was not expected until Dwalin mentioned the nearest cousin of the Line of Durin.

“Dáin did not come?”

“He came.” A heavy moment followed. “He spoke with Rathin against us.”

Glóin made a choking sound; Óin tapped his ear trumpet. Balin could not blame them; this was a cruel blow indeed. Thorin began to pace in the narrow hallway.

“He found me afterwards, tried to protest his love and loyalty. He wished me success, if I was still determined to wager it, and promised supplies if we take the Mountain. But only in private would he say such things! Before my other lords, I did not recognize him for my kinsman!”

Dwalin’s face was as dark as Thorin’s, but he said nothing. Óin shook his head.

“The Ironfoot, proved a coward and a traitor! What are our people coming to?” Glóin bemoaned. 

As hurt as the others, Balin felt compelled to speak the hard truth aloud. “Sense, perhaps, not cowardice, may have driven him. We have lost much, these last one hundred and forty five years, and have suffered more. Even with the wizard, our chance is small enough. Dáin has more than himself to consider in this.”

Thorin grimaced, but did not contradict his oldest advisor. The silence lingered for a time. 

“Dunno what Tharkûn was thinking, asking us to take an unrelated female with us; this Quest is dangerous enough without courting disfavor,” Dwalin growled, glancing over at the still-reading girl. Balin cleared his throat.

“I had the chance to ask him about that, actually. Until this morning, he believed her father still lived, and could place her into one of our’s care. Now that she is orphaned…”

“He expects one of this company to offer her **Gátharuthi**?” Thorin’s visage was openly scornful.

Balin gave him a look, but answered calmly. “It is a perfectly acceptable solution.” Thorin gave him a look of his own.

“And you would extend **shakt'ashmâru** , connect yourself -- your noble lineage -- to her?” he scoffed.

Balin’s expression hardened and grew in disapproval until Thorin looked away.

“She has the recommendation of Tharkûn himself, no small thing. And she handled a dwarrow company’s feasting far better than any inn-keeper I’ve ever seen, despite no prior experience, and even now carefully reads the contract we’ve put before her.” Balin folded his hands into his sleeves, looking pleased. “Yes, I would offer her shakt'ashmâru. I have every faith that she will do well.”

“She is **sabkh** ; she cannot fight.”

“We have other soft ones among us, and we do not need her for battle, but for stealth. And for that I think she will do quite well. Tell me,” Balin’s eyes twinkled. “Did you realize she’s right behind you?”

Thorin spun around to see that the hobbit lass was, in fact, only a few paces behind him. Dwalin raised an eyebrow, knife half drawn, at their hostess. She held the contract in her hand but was looking at Thorin, a firm set to her expression.

“The contract is acceptable. Before I sign, however, I do have one request.” 

Thorin did not hold back another scoff, already imaging the ludicrous things a hobbit would demand of a dwarf, but gestured for the now frowning lass to continue.

“I would need two days to put my affairs in order. You and yours are more than welcome to stay here, and rest before we begin our journey, but I would see Drogo’s inheritance secured against the Sackville-Bagginses before I depart.”

This was clearly not what Thorin was expecting.

“Drogo’s inheritance? What do you mean?”

She gestured around her. “Bag End. In his will, Papa named my cousin his heir and myself the caretaker of his estate until Drogo was ready to take possession. The Sackville-Bagginses have already tried to have my father’s wishes overturned once, and I do not mean to let my sudden absence embolden them again.”

The hobbit lass gave no indication she’d even thought twice of being passed over in inheriting her own home despite being unmarried. Is this how hobbits typically arranged such matters? Thorin fought back a sneer, Balin noted with exasperated approval -- irritated as he was at everything that night, this particularity was hardly her fault. He turned his attention to a name that had earned more than a bit of scorn in her voice. 

“Sackville-Baggins? Relations of yours?”

“Unfortunately.” She gave a wry smile, eyes darting to Balin before returning to Thorin. “A cousin and his wife, and they are both as petty and grasping as a dragon, if only half as bright as a troll.”

Thorin, despite himself, gave a chuckle. Her eyes eased slightly.

“May I have it? My two days?”

He nodded. “Set your affairs. We will depart for an inn, if you wish, or pay for our lodgings…”

“There’s no need for that!” she protested. “Truly! Only… if you would loan me two of the company when I go to market tomorrow: I doubt I would be able to carry the necessary provisions to feed us all myself!” she finished with a laugh. Seeing his frown, she continued. “Truly, unless it is onerous to you, I would wish you to stay here. You are my guests, after all, and I promise, nothing ill would be said of you if you remained.”

“And of you?” Dwalin surprised his brother by asking. “Would any ill be said of you?”

She looked surprised as well, but was quick to shake her head. “No! Of course nothing ill would be said of me in hosting my parents’ dear friend Gandalf and his companions, or in assisting them along their way.”

Thorin would have questioned her further, Balin knew, but she made her excuses and left the room as soon as she had signed her contract, quizzing Dori as to sleeping needs and customs for dwarrow, as well as planning breakfast for the morrow with Bombur. Thorin’s thick eyebrows fell heavily over his eyes, but allowed his questions to fall to the wayside. It appeared, after all, he had months to unravel the mystery their new burglar presented. 

Soon after, Thorin stalked off, Dori having told him the master bedroom was prepared for him -- their hostess, apparently, remained in her childhood room even after her father’s return to the stone. After a quick conference with Dwalin, who was shockingly ready to agree to Tharkûn’s scheme, Balin lingered a while, until most of their company had departed to their own beds. He then discreetly beckoned Bifur, whom he judged to have the best memory and most sense out of them all, himself excluded, and sought their hobbit lass. They found her in a storeroom, frowning over bundles of herbs.

“Miss Baggins?” 

Billa looked up from her packing to see Balin before her, hands clasped firmly before him, and Bifur peering over his shoulder. She smiled up at them.

“Yes, Master Dwarves? Can I help you?” 

“It’s just, well, you might remember Dori mentioning that it wouldn’t really be proper...” Balin trailed off at her frown.

“I recall, but I have already signed the contract, and I have no intentions of breaking my word.” She turned to place two bundles back on their hooks, wrapping a third in cloth.

“No, it’s not that, it’s…” Balin trailed off, and took a moment to gather himself. “Well, there are ways, among our people, of temporarily making a person kin, for sake of travel, or business, or some such thing. I do not know how such things are looked upon by hobbits, but for the duration of our journey I would offer… that is, if you are amiable, I, as eldest son of Fundin, would extend the kinship of my brother and myself to you, for the sake of your honor, and that of the whole Company.” He folded his hands together, his piece spoken, and awaited her response.

Billa blinked twice, and thought carefully over her answer. “I have no wish to impose upon you or your brother.”

“Indeed, it is no hardship at all.” Balin gave a small, reassuring smile, his stance relaxing somewhat.

“So you say, but your leader has already proved himself less than fond of me; I have no desire to extend his ire to yourself, or your brother.” Billa tucked her herb packet into a satchel.

“Let me handle Thorin.” His smile deepened for a moment at her clear concern and then faded as he sighed. “I must insist upon this, Miss Baggins. It would be quite scandalous for us, if you journeyed with us with no claim of kin, and our journey is dangerous enough without courting ill fate with dishonor.”

Billa hesitated. “This is truly necessary? And it truly would be no hardship or inconvenience to you or your brother?” At his firm nod, she smiled softly. “Then I would be honored, and I will strive to prove myself worthy of such kin.”

Balin stepped forward, holding out his hand. She took it, and he slowly pulled out a small dagger, raising his bushy eyebrows. She winced, but nodded, and he turned over her hand and pricked her palm, just deep enough for a bead of blood to glisten on her skin. He quickly did the same to his own hand, and grasped hers again in his, letting the blood smear on both palms. This finished, he gently bumped his forehead against hers. “Welcome to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, Biliana, Daughter of the Line of Fundin.”

Bifur came forward then; Balin noticed Biliana starting slightly, as if she had forgotten the other dwarf was there. Balin raised an eyebrow himself; the non-kin witness need not speak during such a ceremony, but Bifur clearly wished to communicate with the halfling lass.

“ **Melekinh** ,” Bifur patted the halfling’s arm. “ **Maídmi, melekinh amsâlul**.”

“He bids you welcome,” Balin explained to the puzzled lass, shoulders relaxing. “‘Melekinh’ is our word for a hobbit female, and he’s expressing his belief you’ll be good luck.”

The lass smiled at the dwarves. “Well, I will certainly try to be.”

They walked away, Bifur still muttering. Balin only half-listened, his mind mostly on the preparations that remained.

###### 

**Translations:**  
**Amsâlul** : lucky  
**Maídmi** : Welcome  
**Melekinh** : female hobbit  
**Sabkh** : soft (feminine form)  
**Shakt'ashmâru** : temporary kinship  
**Shakt'ashmâru Gátharuthi** : “kinship of the contract”, a form of temporary kinship used for business and travel  
**Tharkûn** : “staff-man”, Khuzdul name for Gandalf

###### 

**Authors' Note:** This story is cross-posted at ff.net, under username EllariSigintarg. Thanks for reading! Elle and Rhi


	2. Baggage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Authors’ Note:** Welcome! We hope that you enjoy our romp through Tolkien’s world. If you recognize it, it’s probably from Tolkien or Peter Jackson. If it’s an non-Tolkienian idea you’ve seen before in fanfiction, feel free to assume it’s a (most likely) subconscious allusion/tribute to the original author. Happy reading! Elle and Rhi

#  Baggage 

The hobbit’s requested two days passed without any trouble; Dori and Bofur reported that while their appearance at the market produced more than a few stares, their hostess’s explanations were heard happily enough, without any shocked gasps or malicious whisperings. The halfling did disappear to her solicitor after luncheon the first day, while the Company was still in a lethargic state of awe over the abundance and frequency of hobbit meals, and returned to report her work done, save for needing to return the next day to sign some paperwork. She gathered Dori and Bofur again to visit her cellar, but any irritation Thorin felt at his subjects being commandeered without his permission was quickly forgotten when they reemerged with enough ale and wine to satisfy a hundred dwarves, and the promise of more remaining beneath if needed. The merriment lasted long through the night, and more than one dwarf slept at his spot around Miss Baggins’ dining table. Needless to say, first breakfast the next morning was a subdued affair. Still, Thorin felt anxious and irritable every second wasted in that sleepy place.

The hobbit lass unnerved him, if he was honest with himself. Her smooth face was childlike to his mind, though her dark eyes were disturbingly old. Her form was slender at the waist and shoulder and yet curvy around the hips and breasts, like many of the females he saw pass by her front gate, an odd mix of adolescent and mature shapes of a proper dwarrowdam. Her ears were distressingly elfish, though she seemed to have sense enough, at least as the keeper of her home, to manage a dwarrow company. She laughed easily with Bofur and Fili and Kili, but she rarely spoke more than necessary --- her sharp words to him at her door notwithstanding, and he admitted he had mostly deserved those. As a hostess, she had actually impressed him; he was comfortable in her home, a sadly unfamiliar feeling. Still, he doubted very much she could be of any help on the road, or at the Mountain, and another stone of dread was added to the weight on his heart.

Not a moment too soon, the two days were past, and Thorin was able to give the order to depart. Their ponies had been kept in a fallow field apparently under the hobbit’s supervision, and the company had found her there, pack on back and walking stick in hand, chatting with a rather grizzled hobbit who looked at the dwarrow with open suspicion. The lass rested her hand on his arm, and his attention returned to her.

At least she was dressed practically enough. Her blouse, though white, was loosely cut for comfort and modesty, but not so billowing as to be caught on every passing briar. She wore a heavy skirt, but with slits on both sides going up to mid-thigh, and beneath that was a pair of sensible-looking breeches. Her small, furry feet, however, were naked -- he’d see how her bare soles handled stirrups. 

Feeling a hot gaze fixed on him, Thorin returned his attention to the male hobbit at Miss Baggins’ side. His face was hilariously angry as he glared at Thorin; Dwalin shifted at Thorin’s side, hands resting upon his wide belt to prevent their reaching for his axe handles. The wizard’s arrival broke the stand-off.

“Gandalf!” the pudgy male demanded upon seeing the Grey Pilgrim, hands going to his hips as if scolding a naughty child. “What do you think yer doing?!”

The Wizard looked honestly perplexed, as did the halfling lass.

“Holman…” she pleaded.

“Dragging off Master Bungo’s little girl like this, and with dwarves, no less!” Holman made a truncated gesture at the dwarven company, his seamed face wrought with grandfatherly concern.

“Holman!” The hobbit lass looked shocked at her gardener’s sudden protests.

“Mistress Belladonna would have boxed your ears, Master Wizard!”

“And her daughter is likely to do the same to you, Master Gardener, if you don’t hold your tongue!” the Wizard bit back -- and indeed, the hobbit lass looked fiercer than Thorin would have thought her able -- “Furthermore, I cannot imagine what objections you could possibly have to my friends here, nor my taking Miss Biliana with us, unless you think her incapable?”

“Incapable…!” Holman sputtered indignantly, outrageously offended by the suggestion. “Ms. Belladonna’s child, incapable! That ain’t the matter here, and you know it!”

“Holman.” This time Miss Baggins spoke in a tone not to be ignored. The gardener turned, face miserable, to look at her.

“Holman… my dear, dear Holman. I know you’re worried; any of us would be a fool to assume this journey’s going to be easy.”

“Too far.. It’s too far, Miss Biliana! And with…” His gestured awkwardly towards the Company; Thorin bristled, and Dwalin growled.

“Perfectly honorable dwarves?” The lass interjected with a raised eyebrow, almost daring him to disagree, even as she took his dirty, calloused hands in hers. “Better they, I think, than elves or men, who might misplace me on the way, for want of seeing me!”

Kili snickered; Fili elbowed him, though his face looked dangerously close to a smile of his own.

Agéd hobbit and hobbit lass stared at each other a long moment, before the older sighed, surrendering. As the younger made her way over to the ponies, he turned back to Thorin, Dwalin, and Balin, pointing his finger energetically at them.

“You keep her well, you hear me? She’s a special lass; don’t you go letting her get hurt!”

Thorin took a deep breath, but Balin spoke first, raising one hand placatingly.

“We intend not to let any of our companions be harmed during this journey, Master… Holman, was it? I assure you, we fifteen will take very good care of each other.”

The hobbit still looked upset, but nodded firmly and stomped away, pausing only to briefly embrace Biliana where she stood. Then he left, quickly.

The Company began mounting their ponies. Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin spotted Gandalf assisting the halfling, who was clumsy, to say the least. He sneered and met Glóin’s eye.

“As if we didn’t have enough baggage,” Glóin grumbled, perhaps a touch too loudly, judging by Balin’s rebuking look.

“ **Mafarrakh d’afrukh** ,” Thorin agreed, keeping his eyes on their supposed burglar.

The halfling was no more at ease sitting upon her pony than mounting it. Against his will, Thorin pitied her, and the soreness he knew she would feel later. He approved, then, when Nori rode up to her and began murmuring, gesturing to her various parts as he corrected her seating and posture. Thorin was less pleased, however, when the discussion became filled with laughter, and clearly no longer about her riding skills. By the time Bofur joined in, Thorin was downright glowering.

So it continued for three days. The halfling, though moving stiffly, was helpful enough in the mornings and evenings, assisting Bombur in cooking and serving the meals, always careful to serve Thorin first and quickly learning the proper order for serving the rest of the Company. She kept her bedroll a bit apart from the others, but within clear sight of the fire, and, aside from the first day, was never the last one to secure her things onto her pony. 

The third night, Balin suggested they assign Miss Baggins the last watch, to test her before the road became too perilous. Thorin grumblingly agreed, though Dwalin said nothing. The dwarf king gave his eldest nephew the first watch, and took the second himself.

When the time came, Thorin quietly made his way to the halfling’s bedroll and firmly shook her by the shoulder to wake her. She started upright with a gasp, but she quickly silenced herself and stood, making her way to the sentry post designated by Dwalin before he went to sleep. Thorin made his way to his own bedroll, and laid down, giving the appearance of sleep, but his eyes remained slits, open and watching. 

The halfling seemed surprisingly comfortable in the assigned role, and kept her eyes scanning the clearing around them and glancing often towards the road. Her ears positively twitched at times, a bizarre sight, but Thorin took it to mean she was listening for possible danger, as well as looking, though he heard little to pay attention to.

Suddenly, their burglar was on her feet, staring deep into the dark. Just as suddenly, she relaxed, and hissed in a whisper both amused and annoyed --

“Where have you been off to all night?”

The thief strolled into the camp, his hands in his pockets.

“Just walkin’. Nice area, few folks around here!”

Strain as he might, Thorin could not hear the remainder of their brief conversation, but he did note the soft smile the hobbit gave the rascal before she resumed her sentry duties, nor the wink the dwarf sent her before heading to his bedroll. Then the night was quiet again, until foredawn, when the burglar woke their cook to start on breakfast.

Mostly satisfactory sentry keeping aside, the hobbit’s presence still proved a distraction for many in the Company. Nori once went so far as to juggle knives from his saddle to amuse her, though Dori put an end to that foolishness before Thorin had to. Bofur and his kin remained near the lass, and quickly Kili and Fili were pulled into her presence, as well; Thorin turned more than once to see a smiling hobbit gently chide Kili for something or other -- by the words he could hear, and the mix of happiness and irritation on Fili’s face, he would surmise it was for teasing his elder brother about Svitha Rathévidatter, Fili’s betrothed, a topic about which Kili never tired of crowing. So they rode, until they stopped and unpacked, then slept, and then repacked and rode again.

The new-found routine was altered the morning before they entered Bree. That morning the hobbit lingered amongst her bedding and pack as the others began to crowd around Bombur’s cookpot. 

Thorin glared the back of her auburn head. If she wished to loiter, so be it, but he would not delay their journey on her account; let her join them soon, or let her be hungry until the midday meal.

Nori and Glóin returned from scouting ahead as Bombur stirred the mixture with as satisfied sigh. Glóin rushed on ahead, but Nori paused as he passed the hobbit lass.

“What’s that ye’ve got there, Billa?”

She lifted her head with a wry smile, holding up a … mass of leather? It appeared to be a number of smallish pieces of leather, which she was fastening together with leather cords.

“It’s Bounder’s armor. We keep it in pieces, so it takes less space in a pack. It can be a pain to put together, but I’ll not enter Bree unarmed and unarmored.”

The talk of armor drew Dwalin and Fili to her side, and the others listened intently. Dwalin peered intently down at her, and then huffed.

“You call this armor?”

She smiled. “It’s nothing to your metal, to be sure, but it can -- and has -- stopped an arrow or two.” She pulled the completed jerkin over her head and began to tighten the laces along her sides, until the two pieces were flush against each other, with not enough space between for a needle to pass through, and flaps hung neatly over her shoulders, hips, rear, and groin. The effect was … interesting. 

The image of a soft hobbit, if not gone, was complicated by the leather-work; it was quite well done, to Thorin’s eye, and Nori seemed to approve as well, if his low whistle was anything to go by. There was a touch or two of decoration: some of the leather had been cut into a pattern (it recalled scales to Thorin’s eyes, but he suspected that the artisan had been thinking of leaves), and here and there some black thread curled like ivy along the edges of leather pieces. But the overall effect was quite martial. 

The hobbit simply, suddenly, looked like a warrior. She also looked older, more mature: the leather hugged her curves far more than her flowing travel shirts had, and emphasized her form even more than her Shire-dresses. To his horror, Thorin felt his ears warm, and he turned sharply away as she began securing bracers to her forearms.

“Stopped an arrow?” Fili repeated, impressed. “Where’d you get this from?” 

“Uncle Isembold made it.” Billa rolled the cloth bags that had held the leather pieces tightly and placed them in her pack. “He does all the leather work for the Bounders, along with my cousin Ruby, but she’s still learning.”

“You mean it’s yours? You mean you’ve been shot at before?!” Kili jumped up from his spot watching Bombur’s cookpot, eyes wide, but she shook her head at him.

“No. I wanted to take my turn serving in the Bounders, but after Mother’s death, Father couldn’t bear me being gone so long, nor entering such danger. The armor was my mother’s, in her time, and it served her well as she journeyed to Rivendell, Ered Luin, and back.” She turned to her pack again and pulled out a bundle of dark cloth. Unwrapping it, she revealed two leather sheaths holding daggers with exquisite hilts. Made of green jade, they were carved to look like two green buds, still tightly closed, resting one on top of the other. She held them up for Fili’s inspection.

“These were hers, as well. My mother was gifted these in Ered Luin, before she wed my father.”

Fili took one of the sheaths, and, with an acquiescing nod from Billa, pulled the blade free. The dagger itself was slightly curved, grooved down the middle, and clearly deadly. Fili looked impressed, and glanced up at the burglar questioningly. “These have seen some use. Recently, from the looks of it.”

“I thought ye said ye had no skill with weapons?” Nori accused. His eyes were alight with mischief, his fingers dancing on the hilt of his closest throwing knife.

Billa wagged a finger at the tone. “I said I had no skill with axe or sword, and I haven’t. But I know the basics of dagger-play, at least.” Billa reclaimed her dagger and sheathed it, strapping both to her waist, one on either side. Nori gave a disappointed sigh as the blades disappeared, and Billa gave Glóin a sly smile. “I suppose that makes me one step above the baggage, no?”

Glóin blushed deeply as Nori and the boys broke into a quickly stifled crack of laughter. A silence fell upon the camp as the dwarves took in this new information. A curse from Bombur broke the spell -- breakfast, it seems, had begun to burn, and soon everyone was fed and packed, and the ponies were mounted and pointed along the path to Bree.

*****

Miss Baggins had told Bofur that she intended to ride with Dwalin and Balin that day, to take the opportunity to know her new “kin” better, but one glance at the stiff back and darting eyes of the bald dwarf discouraged her completely, and again she rode between the merry dwarf and Nori. Fili and Kili rode up beside them, but a few quick words of Dwalin’s, spoken in their rough native tongue, had them riding with Dwalin, his brother, and Thorin. The sons of Fundin flanked the others as they entered the mannish town. Everyone was visibly on alert, and even Bofur managed to stay silent.

They made their way to the Prancing Pony, which Bofur would later learn was an old favorite haunt of Bungo Baggins’. Balin, speaking for the Company, reserved five rooms, one with a man-sized bed with a child’s cot for Gandalf and Miss Baggins to share, three rooms of three, and one room of four, which Dwalin, Thorin, and the lads were to share. Bofur and his kin quickly cared for their ponies in the stable, deposited their things in their room, and hurried to the bar, the Ri brothers close behind.Conversation ebbed and flowed, and the tavern filled almost to bursting with patrons. Dwalin and Glóin had claimed a table near the rear door, with one side along the wall. Thorin sat near one end, with only Dwalin between him and the door; his nephews were seated on his other side, with Glóin next to them. Gandalf sat in front of Thorin, but their conversation soon turned to a quarrel, though the noise of the bar concealed the topic. Miss Baggins, Bofur noted, had not yet appeared.

Not inclined to worry over the arguments of his betters, or to fret that a lady was taking her time, Bofur downed three pints and was well into his fourth when their hobbit lass emerged, dressed in her leathers and a flowing skirt. Her auburn hair hung free in tight curls past her shoulders, a first in the dwarves’ company, making her face seem less bare, and the merry miner forgot his words as he looked upon her. He dimly heard a “thunk!” as Ori’s tankard fell from his fingers.

“Miss Baggins!” Dori jumped up as she neared them, and rushed to pull out the free chair for her. “Oh, don’t you look lovely… did you find the washroom to your liking?”

“Yes… oh, thank you!... of course I did. The Pony is always lovely, even with grumpy patrons,” she smirked as she glanced down the table, watching Gandalf and Thorin argue as Dwalin glowered on. 

“You’ve been here before?” Bofur’s voice did not crack, an accomplishment of which he was inordinately proud. He sent a charitable kick in Ori’s direction, and the scribe jolted in his seat before blushing deeply. 

“Billa!” The merry voice of the barkeep answered the question, and the large man swept the petite hobbit up from her seat into his arms with a boisterous laugh, her curls dancing wildly behind her. “Lass! Look how’ve you grown! As bonnie as your mother!” His countenance fell. “Sorry to hear, my lass, ‘bout your father, and sorry we couldn’t come. You’ve been alright? You look well.”

She smiled sadly, patting his meaty arm as he set her down. “Thank you. I am… as well as I suppose I could be. Gandalf has been a gladdening presence, and my new friends make sorrow hard to hold!” She gestured to the dwarves, her smile now tightly impish. 

“Good, lass, good. Do you think you could share that gladness with a song? Been a long time…”

Gandalf winced, but asked calmly enough, “Have you heard her sing, Butterbeer?”

The fat man laughed at the wizard’s face. “Ah, she ain’t Belladonna’s only, Greyhame, and well you know it! She had to get something from her fine father! Regular songbird, she is; and plays almost as well as he did! Speaking of....” He hurried away into a closet and came back holding a wooden stringed instrument. “Dunno if you remember this, lass, you were so little, but your father left this cittern behind once after a visit with you and your ma. Couldn’t find it the next time you all stopped by, and he said never to fret about it! Found it this last spring, when Betsy was doing a spot of cleaning in the cellar.”

She took the instrument lovingly, almost reverently. She held it in her left hand as she pulled her chair out with her right, settling herself in with space between both the table and her companions. She hummed a note as she plucked each string, quietly and efficiently tuning it. Strumming them all when she was satisfied, she looked up. “Requests?”

Dwalin, surprisingly, spoke first. “Play us a Shire tune, lass. It’s a night for gentle songs.”

She smiled, returning her gaze to her strings. She played a soft but happy tune, and, best of all, soon joined her voice to the music. Her clear, high voice dance around words of dewy mornings and calm sunsets, laughing breezes and tinkling brooks. She sang of good earth and fertile seed that would grow to provide life and comfort. She thanked the land as if it were her father, and honored the sun as if her mother. Bofur felt a joy, quieter than his normal merriment, settle in his breast, and, judging by the softening of their set shoulders, his companions felt much the same. 

Her song ended, and she looked up, appearing startled to find she had an audience. She blushed, quiet prettily.

“That was wonderful!” Dori cried out, clapping his hands together. The rest of the Company, and many of the tavern’s patrons besides, were quick to agree. She blushed again, deeper than before, and demurred, until Thorin spoke.

“Well said; you play and sing quite well, Miss Baggins.”

Her eyes widened, and Bofur couldn’t blame the lass. That might have been the first time the king spoke to her since leaving the Shire, and surely the first in such a gentle tone.

“T-thank you.” She glanced down before returning her gaze to his. “My father… he loved music. And loved teaching me.”

“A task well completed, it seems.” The Longbeard king’s mouth twitched into was almost could be called a smirk -- would be called a smirk, if Bofur had seen it on anyone else’s face. The behatted dwarf looked over at his cousin Bifur, who was wearing a rather satisfied smirk of his own.

Kili broke the moment with a rather boisterous demand for another song. Miss Baggins smiled, indulgent, and soon her fingers were racing upon the strings, playing a song more obviously associated with drinking and good company than her previous. It apparently was well known in Bree, for the assembled men and hobbits quickly joined in, making a raucous of sound in which her own soft voice was lost. Bofur caught sight of Nori singing lustily one moment, and the next ducking beneath a Man’s arm and vanishing into the night. One song turned into two, then three, before she was able to relinquish her instrument and another took the lead, and the songs continued.

Soon the night was spent, and slowly the crowd dispersed, until even Bofur departed for bed. They did not long linger in Bree, but departed the next day, much to Dwalin’s relief, Bungo Baggins’s cittern wrapped tightly in oiled skins and secured on Myrtle’s back. 

Once safely out of the mannish town, the royal lads made their way back to the back of the troupe, to joke and chat with Bofur and Miss Baggins. Prince Kili soon grew bored, however, and made to snatch at the golden locket Prince Fili always seemed to have at hand. Miss Baggins reacted before the elder prince could, firmly smacking the mischievous lad’s hand away.

“Enough of that!” she scolded. “Must you always be plaguing him?”

The princeling only laughed. “What else is there to do on the road?” 

The hobbit sighed dramatically at the prince, making him laugh harder. She turned to his brother, a soft look on her face,

“I do admit myself curious, however,” she said. “What is your betrothed like?”

Bofur was curious himself. He knew the lady, of course, if only by reputation. She had a fine one, having the lucky combination of a fair face, quick mind, and skillful hands. Still, he wondered which of her charms first drew a royal eye.

Prince Fili smiled down at his locket. “Calm.”

The halfling looked surprised. “Calm?”

“Completely unflappable. She faces down wary mothers, drunk dwarrow, and charging orcs with the same.... I don’t even really know how to describe it. It’s a mix of a laugh and sigh.” He laughed himself. “And I have learned to fear it more than **Amad** shouting.”

“Aye, that’s as it should be,” Bofur put in, his laughter prompting the princes to join in and their hobbit to smile.

“How did you meet?”

“We’ve known each other most of our lives,” the blond dwarf told Miss Baggins. “Her kin joined us in Thorin’s Halls when Kili was only a wee bairn.” he sent a smirk at his younger brother, who only rolled his eyes. “The Blacklocks -- her Clan -- have always been on rather good terms with the Longbeards, and the Line of Durin. 

“I first noticed her, really noticed, three years ago. She went along on an inspection of one of the more distant ore veins, one of the few that require actually leaving our Halls. They were late returning home.” Though he was only recounting a tale that ended well, Fili frowned, remembering that concern. “Just when we were about to send out a search party, they returned, Svitha in front. She was covered in orc blood but asked, calm as could be, to speak to the captain on duty. She then processed to eviscerate him without even raising her voice or wavering in her comportment an inch.” Fili smiled then, as Kili behind him mouthed the next part of the story.

“I made her first courting gift that night.”

Bofur grinned, having heard many times of that incident himself. He thought he rather approved of it making as much an impression on a prince as on everyone else.

Miss Baggins beamed, and as the day continued, she kept Fili in great spirits, asking of the virtues of Lady Svitha.

Two nights more had them staying at an inn, at the edge of the Lonelands, much quieter than the Pony, everyone there having a fatigued wariness about them. Miss Baggins was not asked, and did not volunteer, to sing. That night, it began to rain. 

The rain continued in the morning, fell harder in the afternoon, and harder still in the evening. The next morning found the dwarves, who had been denied a hot meal three times in a row and were enduring wet blankets and bedrolls, cloaks, and saddles, irritable and grumbling.

“Oye, Mister Gandalf, sir!” Dori shouted up the line in a tone somehow both rude and deferential, “can’t you do something about this deluge?”

“It is raining, Master Dwarf, and it will continue to do so until it has stopped,” the wizard huffed. “If you wish for command over the weather, find yourself another wizard.”

Bofur chuckled at the wizard’s irritation, but Miss Baggins seemed intrigued.

“Are there any? Other wizards, I mean?”

“There are five of us,” Gandalf told her, taking the posture of a schoolmaster. “First is Saruman, the White, the head of my Order and a great master of lore and craft. Then there are – or were, we have not had word of them in many a year – the two Blue… what were their names? Alatar and Pallando, was it? Or were they called Morinehtar and Rómestámo? Ah, the years have been long, and even their faces have faded from my memory. They journeyed into the East, to succor the men of the East, long burdened by the tyranny of the Enemy. And the last is Radagast, the Brown.”

Bofur forgot the rain for a moment when he saw the twinkle in their hobbit’s eyes.

“And is he a great wizard?” she asked. “Or is he more like you?”

Bofur glanced beside him when he heard a snort, but all he saw was Thorin staring at the landscape before them.

“I think he is a very great wizard!” The wizard huffed, “in his own way. He is the friend of all birds and beasts, speaking their tongues and protecting them against the encroaching darkness. Still, he is an odd sort.”

“Well,” the hobbit lass allowed. “A great wizard, I suppose, is allowed his particularities.”

Another snort, and this time Bofur thought he detected a quick tug on Thorin’s lip. An old branch cracked then, falling limp like a bent elbow, dumping the water collected in its thick leaves upon Kili’s head. A series of loud oaths followed, and the conversation between halfling and wizard was abandoned in the din of the Company’s laughter.

The rain finally stopped the next morning, but the journey did not much improve. Three further days of riding through rather bleak lands passed, until they approached a river and a bridge of distressingly elfish character, before which the dwarves halted to refill their water skins. Kili and Fili were first off their ponies, and the youngest prince was in the river, thanks to a well-executed grapple by his brother, even before the remaining Company had fetched their waterskins. 

Miss Baggins paused after dismounting, still a ways away from the riverbed, before turning to the Northeast, defiance in her stance and speaking in a tongue Bofur didn’t know --but whatever she said in that low, but not quiet voice, it wasn’t kind. 

“What was that?” Kili asked, looking up at her with damp locks, and a quick glance showed that Fili’s hair was wet now, too.

The hobbit pointed back to the northeast.

“That way is Mount Gram. Two hundred years ago, the goblins there invaded the Shire, and made war upon us. My many-times great uncle, the Bullroarer, drove them back to their mountain pits, but neither we nor they have ever forgotten. In harsh winters, sometimes, they skulk back towards our lands, but the Bounders and Rangers have kept them in check, mostly.” She looked up from carefully filling her waterskin to gesture towards the bridge. “This place is called the Last Bridge, and so far as any hobbit within memory has gone, it is. It has been custom since Bullroarer’s time, whensoever a halfling of the Shire stops here, to note that Mount Gram still stands and then curse it, that it might collapse upon itself.”

Fili looked impressed, and Bifur pleased, but Bofur noted many of the Company looking at her in surprise, either on account of her narrative or because it was more than those who did not ride with her had heard her say at once. 

Then Kili piped in, confused. “What’s a goblin?”

Miss Baggins looked down again at the river -- Bofur could see the smile she was trying to hide -- and Fili rolled his eyes.

“It’s another word for orc,” Balin told the younger dwarf prince. “I’ve heard the men around Bree use it, but few besides. Is it of Shire-origin?” 

Their halfling shrugged. “Perhaps. Even our most official records use goblin instead of orc.” 

“It is a Shire-word,” Gandalf remarked from where he sat by the riverside, smoking his pipe. “And a fine word, I think. ‘Orc’ has a sort of mystique about it, while ‘goblin’ robs the creatures of the grandeur that fear brings.” He rose, putting out his pipe. “But I think our noble leader is eager to depart.” 

Bofur looked at Thorin, who was standing by Minty and, indeed, looked impatient to be off. They crossed over the bridge -- made of good stone, but of ridiculous design in Bofur’s opinion -- and entered into a much greener land than they had left. They rode for some time more, but stopped earlier in the evening than they had in the Lonelands, as the light coming through the trees was dimmed, and some light was needed to prepare the camp. A suitable spot was quickly found, and they all took a long moment to relax upon their bedrolls and stretch out any aches caused by the day’s ride.

*****

Thorin was glad, though he would never admit it, to order the early stop. Wanting some time away from the wizard, and his nagging insistence that they needed to visit the elves of Rivendell, he had ridden behind most of the Company that afternoon, and had watched as the **melekinh** \-- her riding improving but by no means good -- bounced in her saddle. Besides, the early stop left Dwalin with a chance to put Fili and Kili through their paces; it wasn’t good for young warriors to spend too much time without holding the blade in their hands. A quick series of hand gestures had Dwalin rounding up a grumbling Kili and a resigned Fili, but he surprised his king by pausing besides the smallest of the bedrolls.

“Alright, lass, on your feet.”

The halfling looked up at Dwalin, blinking. He gestured firmly.

“Ye showed off those pretty daggers; now I want to see if yeh know how to use ‘em.”

“I think your standard of ‘using them’ might differ from mine,” Miss Baggins admitted with a grimace, very carefully not looking at Thorin’s face. “But very well.” With that, she stood and followed Dwalin away from the campsite towards the rough clearing he had chosen for running Fili and Kili through their drills.

The wizard had apparently decided, much to Thorin’s chagrin, that his respite was over and came up to him, once again prattling on again about Rivendell, and its loremaster Lord.

“I will not visit that den of elves!” Thorin interrupted the wizard. “As I have told you, I learned long ago not to trust in elven goodwill. Even if this Elrond can discover more of this map than its rightful owner, I see no reason to assume he _would_.”

“And as I have told _you_ , Elrond _Peredhel_ is as noble a lord as lives in Middle Earth today, and is as wise as those with twice his years.” Gandalf huffed as he leaned on his staff. “You would find no enemy in Rivendell, nor any ill-will, save that which you brought yourself.”

“Which is none, as I shall not step foot in that place.” Thorin turned away, thinking maybe to assist Dwalin in the training of his sister-sons.

“I did not give you that map and key for you to hold onto the past like some petulant child!”

The dwarven king rounded back on the wizard. “I did not know they were yours to keep!” he bit back in a tone that caused many of his Company to flinch and edge away. “Or has a member of the White Counsel descended to tomb robbing and filching?” 

Gandalf’s face was thunderous, but he did not respond, instead storming off into the woods, his horse following faithfully behind, muttering about the stubbornness of dwarves. Thorin looked about, but none dared to meet his eye, and he settled down on a log near the fire in a foul humor, ignoring the muted noises of the camp preparing for the night ahead as he waited for his supper.

He was let be for some time, until his mood began to soften; then Dwalin and his students returned, Fili and Kili groaning and collapsing on their bedrolls; the hobbit –whose braid had completely fallen apart--sported a few marks that would clearly become bruises, and moved stiffly, but she took her usual spot by Bombur and began to assist the large dwarf in making dinner.

“She’s not terrible,” Dwalin began without preamble as he took his seat beside his king, his brother quickly joining them. “No bad habits I need to break, from what she showed today. Fili scored most of the hits, but the lass never made the same mistake twice in a row, and kept up the whole time.” He paused to accept his waterskin from Balin and took a swig. “She’ll have to rely more on cunning and swiftness than strength, but give me some time with her, and she’ll keep herself alive in any rumble we get into, least long enough for us to handle it.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow and inclined his head, encouraging Dwalin to continue.

“She doesn’t have much killing instinct, mind; she’ll never be a warrior. But she knows more about fighting than Ori or the Ur brothers -- though Bifur’s getting his cousins up to snuff quickly enough,” he shrugged. “Still, she had good teachers when it came to form. Never once dropped a blade, even when Kili knocked her into a tree.”

Kili glanced over at that, blushing fiercely.

“She didn’t complain, either,” Dwalin finished.

“She might tomorrow, when the soreness sinks in,” Thorin warned.

“We’ll have to see,” Balin smiled, gesturing behind them in warning. Bombur, apparently, was satisfied with the dinner and had ladled it into bowls for the hobbit to pass around. As always, she handed Thorin his meal first, then Balin, racing back to grab Dwalin’s before continuing on to hand everyone their bowls and settling down with her own food. She paused then, looking around in confusion. 

“Where’s Gandalf?”

The Company groaned and Thorin glowered; Nori quickly filled their burglar in. Her face paled slightly, and she seemed to eye the shadows more warily than before. Foul humor returned, Thorin was silent -- and the Company quiet -- as the meal was finished and cleaned up, and the nightly watch rotation set up. Before they went to bed, however, Dwalin surprised his king yet again.

“Lass, come o’er here. I’ll fix your braids before you go to sleep.”

The hobbit looked bemused, and several members of the Company gave him wide eyes, but she came to him with her brush and her ties without comment, and Dwalin quickly had her hair tucked into a strong braid that would withstand sleep, travel, and training better than her own handiwork had. He patted her shoulder once done, and she went to her bedroll, Dwalin quickly following her lead himself, as did all except Balin, who had the first watch.

The next morning showed no sign of the Wizard, nor did he meet them upon the road. The weather did not help any fraying temperaments; rain came again, somehow more abundantly than before. Thick, cold raindrops splattered over the road, the ponies, and them. The wind picked up, sweeping the rain under their hoods and onto their faces. Pretty soon, they were all thoroughly miserable, and, unable to see even a few paces in front of them, Thorin called for a halt. 

Not even Óin or Glóin could get a fire going, and thus dinner was only a hard biscuit (which several held out in the rain to moisten), a strip of jerky, and an apple -- the last of the fresh fruit. Eying their stores, Thorin sent out Dwalin, Fili, and Kili to forage. Kili, of course, was to stay with his brother, for while his eye was improving, he still brought inedible things back from his foragings around Ered Luin one time out of three. He debated sending out the halfling, too, if only to test her own skills in the wilderness, but decided against the idea; it would just be that day’s luck that she would get lost and they would have to rescue her.

The rain eased, and then stopped, about half an hour after Thorin had sent the foragers off. He looked at the sky with a mix of relief and irritation; while he was grateful their sleep would not be a wet one, couldn’t the skies have dammed up their waters in time for a warm dinner? Not twenty minutes later, Dwalin was back, less prizes than might have been expected, but with a serious face.

“There’s a fire, not ten minutes’ walk from where we are,” he told the Company in his gruff voice, pointing to the northwest.

“Who is it? Did you see? Are they friend or foe? Did they see you?” Dori asked without taking a breath. His thieving brother rolled his eyes.

“Of course I didn’t look, !” Dwalin growled, gesturing to himself. “Wearing and carrying all this? They’d have heard me before I got halfway to the camp.” He turned to Thorin. “I’ll head over once I’ve had a chance to --”

“Don’t be silly.” The halfling, of all people, interrupted. “I’ll go.”

Every head snapped to her. She blushed, but did not look down or step away.

“You hired me to _burgle a dragon_ ,” she reminded them. “Surely, seeing what sorts of neighbors we’ve got is a simple enough task, compared to that.”

The dwarrow all looked at Thorin. His brow furrowed, but after a few minutes he spoke: “Go. Be careful -- but don’t expect us to risk all our lives for you if you’re caught.” He suddenly added, surprising himself.

Balin and Dwalin looked at him in disappointment bordering on anger, and the rest of the Company froze, but the burglar just huffed.

“I won’t be _caught_.” She said it almost as if it were funny. Without letting him speak another word, she faded into the woods in the direction Dwalin had indicated.

*****

Whatever the unknown person or persons were, they smelled _terrible_. Billa smelled them almost as soon as she left the camp (had it really taken Dwalin almost an hour to notice?). So not Rangers, then -- while they frequented this part of the Trollshaws, they held themselves and their equipment to a high standard of cleanliness. Willing herself invisible, she creeped closer and closer to the visible fire, breathing out of her mouth so she wouldn’t gag. Eventually, she even had to wrap a handkerchief around her nose and mouth to blunt the odor. But onward she pressed, until she reached the edge of the camp.

Well, they’re certainly not friendly neighbors, Billa thought as she stared up at the three monstrous trolls. She had never seen a troll in person before, and for a long moment she merely looked up upon their hideous faces with a fascinated abhorrence. But then her good hobbit sense awoke, and she made to sneak back to her Company’s camp, to warn them that, for all their sakes, it was best not to linger.

She was moving silently away when disaster struck. Kili, laughing so hard he was silent, bounded straight into the clearing, a locket on a chain dangling from his fist. He skidded to a stop, eyes going wide at the sight of the three monstrous creatures in front of him. He slowly began to step back, but the trolls started, and eyes began to move towards his location. Billa threw herself forward, willing herself fully visible.

“Hello there!”

###### 

**Translations:**  
**Amad** : mother  
**Bund'thurkûn** : rock-head  
**Mafarrakh d’afrukh** : a burden to carry  
**Melekinh** : hobbit lass


	3. Treasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **General Authors’ Note:** Welcome back! We hope that you enjoy our romp through Tolkien’s world. If you recognize it, it’s probably from Tolkien or Peter Jackson. If it’s an non-Tolkienian idea you’ve seen before in fanfiction, feel free to assume it’s a (most likely) subconscious allusion/tribute to the original author. Happy reading! Elle and Rhi

# Treasure

_“Hello there!”_

The trolls, for their part, looked as stunned as Kili. Billa fixed the brightest smile she had, earned from years of entertaining her Sackville-Baggins relations, upon the trolls, even as she gestured subtly but frantically at the dwarf prince, who finally, _finally_ slipped back into the woods as the first troll -- the one stirring the pot -- spoke.

“What’s this, ‘en?”

That simple sentence brought in a cacophony of noise, preventing Billa’s prompt reply.

“I’ve never seens one before; can we eat it?”

“It’s so small!”

“Whats is it?”

“What’s it doin’ ‘ere, Tom?”

Billa let them speak amongst each other, looking all the while out of the sides of her eyes for possible escape routes. _Technically_ , she hadn’t been caught yet, and she didn’t intend to be. She jumped back when one of them made a clumsy grab at her.

“Now, don’t be rude!” she scolded, using the voice she normally reserved for rambunctious Took fauntlings. “And after I came all this way to welcome you to my forest!”

The trolls paused, looking down at her in confusion.

“Yer forest?”

“Yes, of course it’s my forest! Haven’t you ever heard of a forest imp before?” She smiled as she reclaimed the nickname her grandfather had given her after finding Paladin.

“Er… no?”

Biliana threw up her arms in mock consternation, turning a disappointed expression on the trolls. 

“Really? Honestly!” She sighed dramatically. “Well, we look after the forests, you see. We love our trees and mushrooms and ferns, but even more so, we love visitors. And it’s been so very long, you see, since I had any visitors.” She turned her expression mournful as she looked over at their simmering pot. “But… I see you’ve already got your own dinner started. Oh, dear. I would have dearly loved to have made you a lovely, lovely dinner.”

They stared, and more than one stomach grumbled. The smallest of the trolls moaned, and the largest rounded on him.

“Now look here, I’ve made this, and yer gonna like it, or so help me Bert, yer goin’ hungry!” He whacked the smallest even as the third made another grab for Billa, who danced back without even looking at him, still focused on the cook.

“Yes, yes; I can see it was a labor of love, it’s quite obviously so, and it would be worse than a pity to let it go to waste!” The largest troll looked mollified at her words, though the other two still scowled at the loss of a meal. “I’ll be back on the morrow, just you wait, with a breakfast that kings would be flattered to receive!”

That gave them pause. “Yer’ll cook for us?”

“Of course!” She beamed at them. “That’s what one ought to do for visitors, after all! I’ll make just a _fabulous_ breakfast, just you wait and see!” Then she paused, remembering. “Or dinner, I suppose. I’ve heard trolls like to sleep all day, is that right?” Without really waiting for an answer, she prattled along. “I really must be going, then: it’s been so long since I had visitors of your… stature, and I have so very much to do! Oh, do tell me, do you prefer stewed Man or roasted Elf?”

Amazingly, the trolls seemed inclined to believe her (the youngest troll -- Bert -- was positively _drooling_ ), and that could have been the end of it, but an earth-shaking chorus sent Billa’s heart into her feet.

“ **Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!** ”

The whole Company came thundering into the clearing, swords and axes and maces at the ready. Said weapons were quickly swung at troll feet, legs, and other parts, but the trolls proved to be much quicker than their lumbering forms would suggest. Billa stood transfixed, mouth hanging open, at the skill and speed of her dwarven companions; it almost looked like they were dancing.

“Best get out of here, lass,” someone growled to her left; it was Dwalin. “We’ll take care of this.”

Billa nodded quickly, took a deep breath as she stepped back into the wood, willing herself invisible. She watched for some time, and thought that her dwarves were likely to win the fight, if they continued to fight as well as they began. They swung with strength and purpose, never losing balance when a blow was dodged or dropping a weapon when it shook from a collision. But troll skin is tough, tough as boiled leather affixed to a wooden shield, and even the blows of Thorin and Dwalin only scratched, rather than severed, limbs. Nori took a cheap shot at the dignity of one of the trolls, and it tottered, and that could have turned the tide of the battle, had not Ori also stumbled then. He fell, dropped his mace, and was quickly snatched up by the biggest of the trolls.

“F’row down yer weapons!” Tom roared, “or we’ll rip his ‘ere arms clean off!”

The dwarves hesitated; Dori cried out in anguish. Then with an oath, Thorin threw down his sword. The rest followed suit, and then the trolls simply gathered them up in their strong grips. The trolls quarreled for some time, the dwarves being tied up in bags and loudly protesting despite the occasional kick aimed at them, and Billa watched carefully, trying to find an opening. 

“I fink we should f’row ‘em in the pot!” Tom said, slavering as he stared at the dwarves.

“No, that’ll take away all the flavor!” the largest troll groaned. “We should roast ‘em!”

“Roastin’ takes time,” Bert whined. “And Oi’m ‘ungry now!”

“Yer always ‘ungry,” Tom snarled. “Shaddup before I put you in the pot.”

Bert sniffled, blowing his nose on a rag taken from the rope tied around his waist. “Wouldn’t taste no good,” he grumbled, then stumbled upon a new idea. “How about we eat ‘em raw? A la carte, ain’t it?”

“That ain’t ‘a la carte’,” Tom sneered, cuffing the smaller troll on the ear. “Don’t use words yew don’t knew the meanin’ of!”

“Oi, don’t yew hit me!” Bert kicked out at Tom, and the two scuffled for a moment, ending with Tom seated on Bert’s head, and passing gas most noxiously.

While Bert and Tom had argued, the largest troll lumbered into the woods, and procured two iron supports, dragging them to either side of the fire.

“‘Old on then,” Tom said, scrambling to his feet, leaving a whimpering Bert trying to wipe his streaming eyes. “Oi never agreed to roastin’!” 

The debate continued a few moments more, but eventually the biggest troll seemed to win the argument, and some of the dwarves were affixed alive to a monstrous roasting spit. Billa silently fretted from her vantage point, desperately trying to think of something, anything to do, but what could one small, barely battle-trained hobbit do when thirteen dwarves had failed?

She groaned softly, letting her head fall back. Dimly, she noticed that the sky was lightening… dawn must not be far off.

Dawn… She straightened right up, grinning. She knew exactly what to do. She snuck, quiet as a mouse, into the clearing, near the feet of the trolls. There was an old Baggins party trick she could imagine working quite well: how kind of the trolls, really, to each speak enough for her to get a grasp on their voices!

“We still really oughta take ‘em off the spit, leaving ‘em for tomorrow.” Billa croaked in a troll’s voice. “No good roasting ‘em now, it’d take all night!”

Tom and Bert looked at the third troll.

“Now see ‘ere--!”

“‘Oo see ‘ere?”

“Ya see ‘ere! Don’t start arguin’ all over again, Bill,” said Tom, “or it will take all night.”

“Who’s a-arguing?” protested Bill, who thought Bert had spoken.

“‘Oo are!” said the smallest.

“Yer a liar, Bert!: said Bill, and the argument began again in earnest. 

“Shut up, shut up!” Shouted Tom.

“Shut up yerself!” cried a voice like Bert’s.

“Yer a booby!” said Tom.

“Booby yerself!” said Billa in Bill’s voice.

And they were off, shouting and wrestling and rolling in the dirt a bit too close to the dwarves for comfort, but to their laughter and cheers.

“Oo, good one!” Bofur cheered after one bit another.

“Go for the legs! The legs!” was Fili’s delighted contribution.

“Don’t let him sit on you!” Dwalin boomed. “Take him down!”

“Throw dirt in his eyes!” Ori screeched, and Billa had to chuckle to herself when Bert took the smallest dwarf’s advice.

Tom staggered back from the other two, thick trunk-like legs swinging wide, catching a few dwarves with his foot and sending them flying; Nori landed quite close to the cookpot where Billa hid, looking stunned by his brief flight.

Billa watched the trolls closely, half an eye on the pinkening sky. When the sun was just moments away, she indulged her Tookish side in a most enjoyable fashion.

“Now see ‘ere!” she cried, in Bert’s voice: only, Bert, currently face-first on the ground with Tom on top of him, couldn’t speak, and even the trolls realized it. Billa let herself become visible, enjoying the shocked jumps and cries of her audience and much too pleased with herself to notice Nori, gaping up at her. Bill snarled.

“You!”

“Me!” She laughed. “Dawn take you all, and be stone to you!” She pointed above their heads, towards the horizon, where the sun peeked over the still-sleeping landscape.

Bert shrieked and turned to flee, colliding with Tom, whose sweaty forehead glistened in the faint light of dawn. Bert blubbered, scrambling back on his haunches, staring in horror as Tom tried to fight the sunlight, but lost his ability to move as the sunlight petrified him. 

“‘Elp me!” he begged of Bert, but it was far too late.

Patches of petrified stone spread from wherever sunlight touched, spreading like water splashed onto a garment, growing in speed as more sunlight touched the troll, until he was completely overtaken by stone.

Bert whimpered, trying to take shelter behind the petrified body of Bill, who had caught a face-full of sunlight; unable to cry out, the troll was frozen with a look of revulsion carved onto his craggy face, arms half-raised as if to protect himself.

The sun inexorably continued to rise over the landscape, and Bert’s hiding place did not last long; a dapple of sunlight alighted upon his knee. Bert screamed, lunging for Billa in his last moments, but the sunlight overtook him and he fell to the earth, one arm extended toward the “forest imp” that had brought about the doom of the trolls from the Ettenmoors. 

Billa and the dwarves watched, for once completely silent, until the last troll was stone and still. Then the cheering began.

Billa made quick work of freeing the dwarves in sacks, but those on the spit required a bit more coordination. Poor Bifur and Glóin, who had been on the bottom when it stopped, were rather uncomfortable by the time they were finally returned to the solid earth.

No sooner had the last weapon had been reclaimed, then Gandalf himself strode into the clearing, looking mighty proud of himself. Billa sighed, and Thorin thundered:

“Where have you been?!”

“Looking ahead,” the wizard replied, Thorin’s temper not affecting the twinkle in his eye one bit.

Billa knew she was going to regret this… “What brought you back?”

“Looking behind,” he answered, still disgustingly cheerful.

She giggled despite herself, and Thorin sent her an exasperated glare (was it just her imagination, or was it less fierce than the looks he was sending Gandalf?).

“I went on to spy out our road,” the wizard continued. “It is safe, for now. Only elves roam between us and Rivendell.”

“Your timing could have been better,” Thorin growled, not ready to accept the shift in conversation. 

“My timing, as always, was impeccable,” Gandalf countered, entirely unperturbed. “It just so happens that I saw our burglar had everything well in hand, and so sat back to observe.”

Billa longed to cover her ears against Thorin’s inevitable response, but it never came. Daring to glance at him, she observed that the dwarven king’s face was stormy as he looked above Billa’s head. He stormed past the hobbit, leaving her and the wizard alone.

Clearing her throat a tad awkwardly, she returned her attention to Gandalf. “I didn’t think trolls frequented here… I thought the elves drove them off more than an age ago.”

“They did.” Gandalf’s face fell into troubled puzzlement. “These must have come down from the Ettenmoors.”

“How could they even stay here? Trolls cannot travel in daylight.”

“There must be a cave nearby!” Glóin interjected from a few steps to the side, looking quite intrigued. He, his brother, and Gandalf took off to seek the troll cave, but Billa was distracted by a metallic glint beneath the largest troll statue. Walking over to it, she saw a key, practical and of heavy bronze; she looked up to ask Gandalf what he thought of it, but her question was obscured by the increasingly loud exclamations of Thorin Oakenshield.

“Supposed to be training… Foolish… easy on him… endangering the entire Company!”

Thorin stood before the Ri brothers, visibly steaming. Dori looked embarrassed, Nori furious, and Ori… poor Ori looked absolutely miserable. 

Billa scurried over to Thorin’s side, unthinkingly placing her hand on his sleeve.

“Please, please don’t be angry with them!” she pleaded. “I was the one who was seen, it was all my fault –”

“No, burglar.” Thorin took her hand in his, squeezing it for a moment before letting it go. His answer was both serious and softer than Billa had ever heard him speak. “No – Kili confessed what had happened, when he came to summon us to your aid. How you had placed yourself at risk to save him from his own foolishness.” He paused, before, of all things, _bowing_ slightly at her. “It was bravely done, Miss Baggins… And thank you.”

Billa blushed deeply, and something warm unfurled within her chest. Thorin rose from his bow, and walked away. Ori nearly collapsed in relief, and Dori immediately began fussing over him; Nori stared at Billa with an inscrutable look in his eye. Slightly uncomfortable, both from intruding on the spectacle of Dori consoling Ori (and himself) and from Nori’s piercing gaze, she walked a few paces away, turning her attention to the current most active members of the Company. Glóin and Óin had continued their hunt for the trolls’ cave (what they could possibly want with such a place, Billa had no idea), knocking their knuckles against the outcropped rock. Finally, Glóin hit upon something, and, after a moment, began to cry out.

“A key! It needs a key! Look for a key!”

With a startled jump, Billa remembered the key still in her hand.

“Here, here!”

She rushed over, handing the red-headed dwarf her find. He tried it, and turned to her, grinning.

“Good luck, little burglar! It fits! Now, let’s see what stolen treasures these trolls have hoarded away!”

He opened the door, and it _stank_. Gagging, Billa fled back, turning towards the woods and breathing in the fresh scent of the forest. Inside the cave, she could hear the striking of pickaxes against dirt and the tinkling of coins falling together. Eventually, Thorin and Dwalin emerged, Thorin inspecting a strikingly beautiful sword in his right hand. Gandalf followed them, smiling when his eyes alighted on Biliana.

“Billa, my dear, come here! I think this is just your size!” He held out a blade, probably meant as a man’s or elf’s long knife, but of a length that she could probably wield it as a sword, had she any idea how.

“Gandalf…” she fumbled as he handed her the sword without giving her a chance to refuse it. “I’ve never even _seen_ a sword be used before coming on this mad journey of yours, I couldn’t possibly --”

“Good,” Dwalin rumbled from behind her (she didn’t jump but, to her immense delight, Gandalf did, if only slightly). “Means I don’t have to unteach you anything.”

She turned to stare at him, sure her eyes were comically wide. He did a half-jerk of the left side of his mouth (Billa was beginning to suspect that was his version of a smile), and assured her, “I’ll get you using that like you were born holding it, just you wait.”

Billa bit her tongue to hold back a rude comment about not being one of the sort who could be born holding their sword (and realized she was even more tired than she thought), and gave a skeptical nod. The gruff dwarf snorted, and walked away towards his brother. She fumbled over her sword (at least it had a sheath -- scabbard, she vaguely recalled being the proper term) and tried to figure out how, exactly, she was supposed to rest it on her hip.

“Here, Miss Billa.” She turned to see Nori grinning cheekily at her. “Here’s how.” He moved her arms up from her side and took the blade and her belt. With exaggerated slowness, he slid the scabbard onto her belt and rested the sword on her hip before re-buckling her belt. He patted the blade at her side before taking her hands in his big ones and gently pulling down her arm.

“See? Easy as can be.” He bowed, giving her left hand an exaggerated kiss before releasing it. “Don’t worry,” he vowed. “We’ll get you using that, no worries, and take special care to make sure no harm comes to your pretty self while you’re learnin’. If old Dwalin is too gruff for yourself, I know a thing or two about swordplay to keep you safe.” Billa gave him an unsure smile.

“Course, I’d need some payin’,” he continued, and her look turned to a frown. “Maybe a lesson in return on however you did that disappearin’ act back there?” The dwarf’s dark eyes were narrowed, his expression somewhere between harmless curiosity and outright suspicion.

Billa frozen, eyes going wide. In her worried near-panic, she hadn’t really thought about the possibility someone might notice, and she had no explanation prepared.

Feeling someone glaring, Billa turned to see Thorin glowering at her and the tri-star haired dwarf; Nori smirked and saluted, but moved away towards his mount; relieved but also thoroughly embarrassed -- that she was seen being so incompetent as to need help putting on her sword, especially when she had just impressed Thorin for the first time since they met -- Billa flushed a deep red, ducked her head, and moved away, seeking Myrtle her pony; Thorin doubtless would want to move on soon.

*****

The trolls encounter had begun as an embarrassing debacle, but Thorin was quite pleased with how it had ended. Even if his new sword was elven in origin, it was well made and rather beautiful, and his burglar had been proven not entirely useless. He was disappointed in the brothers Ri, but he had made his displeasure clear and was confident that corrections would be made. Dori might be a fussy ass, and Nori a thieving scoundrel, but they were loyal, and decent warriors to boot. The eldest had a good head on his shoulders, and should the youngest learn to look up from his scribe-work, he would doubtless make sensible decisions in battle.

He was tempted to hum—the first song Miss Baggins had sung at Bree had been echoing in his mind for a while—but he resisted the urge. Looking back at her, Thorin allowed himself a quick smile as she scolded Kili for his foolishness leading up to the trolls. He had planned to give the boy a lecture himself, but he wondered if the sensation of being so fiercely reprimanded by so small a creature might have a greater impression upon the irrepressible lad.

He had been pleasantly surprised by her, and more than pleasantly pleased. She had shown bravery and – almost more importantly – cleverness throughout the night, and her unthinking protection of Kili and Ori spoke well of her character and loyalty to at least some of the Company. Perhaps he would join Dwalin the next time he pulled his nephews and the hobbit away for training, and see for himself her abilities. Her smooth face might still appear to him childish, but her nature -- like her form -- was proving itself mature. 

Lost in his thoughts, Thorin let the hours pass without much consideration of them, no matter their sleepless night. They rode through the day, trying to pass through the elven territory as quickly as possible. No matter what **Tharkûn** wanted, nothing in Mahal’s stoney mountains would make him -- 

A distant, feminine cry interrupted his musings, cutting through the woods like an orc’s blade. Every dwarf’s vision turned to red. The lady was clearly in pain, and frightened. Barely a moment’s pause; they charged towards the noise, the wizard and halfling failing to keep pace, nightmares of mannish or Dourhand criminal doings filling Thorin’s mind and fueling his anger.

Dwarrow, particularly the exiles of the Lonely Mountain, were not ignorant of the dangers that females especially faced when separated from their family halls. Normally, men who targeted dwarrowdams often found themselves facing a mountain too steep for them to climb, but even an unsuccessful attack left scars, physical or emotional. And Dourhands, the despised and exiled **Durthurathâkh** of every clan, sometimes came together in packs, prowling and preying upon the unsuspecting. Two dams had been insulted in the raid against the Longbeards’ unfinished halls in Ered Luin during the hard winter thirty years previous; Thorin had never forgot, would never forget, the shadow that lingered in their eyes afterwards.

They found the wailing female on the ground next to a large elm tree, an elf-male hovering over her. Faster than a flash, Nori was off his horse and had his blades pressed against the elf’s most sensitive parts. Dwalin and Thorin flanked him immediately, the others fanning out into the clearing, to keep an eye out for any other malefactors.

“Step aside, there’s a good lad,” Nori cooed in a low, frightening voice, even as Óin rushed over to the female. A quick inspection had his shoulders relaxing, hands swiftly leaving her form, and he waved off the thief.

“There’s no need -- he didn’t harm her. Least, not that way. The lady is in labor.”

Nori’s knives disappeared back somewhere into his clothing, and the dwarves took a step back from Óin and the lady, sighing in relief even as their faces tightened. 

“What -- you thought…?” the elf-male stuttered, a mix of emotions dancing across his face as Gandalf and the hobbit burst into the clearing. “I suppose I ought to thank you for leaping to my wife’s defense,” he finally muttered.

“No need, lad,” Balin answered, voice serious. “It’s no more than we’d do for any female.” The old advisor looked to Óin and the female. “Should we stay?” Behind him, Gandalf and the burglar were dismounting.

“Oh, please do,” the female begged, grasping Óin’s hand with both of hers, ignoring his alarm. “It’s my -- our --” she glanced at the male, “first child. We were hoping to make it to Rivendell before my time came, but I just couldn’t…”

“No need to explain, my lady,” the halfling stepped up to Óin’s side, giving a small, bobbing curtsey. “Babes come when they want to, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it.” She smiled warmly at the soon-to-be mother. The hobbit lass glanced at Óin and Gandalf, before sending a questioning look at Thorin. At his nod, she beamed and turned back to the elf female. 

“We’ll stay, at least until the wee one is born.”

Both elves thanked the Company profusely; Óin waved them off, but looked worried; though all healers learned the basics of it, in case of a birth on the road, most dwarrowdams gave birth safely ensconced within their settlements, in rooms dwarrowmen were forbidden even to enter. Perhaps sensing his hesitation, Miss Baggins took charge, issuing orders to the hapless elf-male and the Company alike. She took their bedrolls and fashioned a more comfortable bed for the lady, gathered wet rags to wipe away her sweat, and spoke to the laboring mother in a low, soothing voice. Even as the males fluttered in impotent nervousness around her, she remained a bastion of calm. Óin, at least, recovered himself quickly enough, and assisted the halfling at her request, careful to both be helpful yet avoid touching the elven lady. His visage remained wary for a time, but smoothed as the hobbit put the laboring mother at ease with remarkable confidence.

“You seem familiar with all this,” Óin remarked, a question in his voice. The halfling smiled, even as her eyes remained upon the elf female.

“My mother was one of twelve, and I was the firstborn female of the next generation. Unmarried daughters and nieces are often called to the bedside of their birthing relations back home; I’ve attended eighteen births, so far.” She wrung out her rag in the bowl of water she had made Kili fetch. 

“ _Eighteen!_ ” Thorin didn’t recognize, at first, the voice that cried out. If later reflection would reveal it to be his own, he would excuse himself, as he was hardly the only one shocked: Dwalin’s low “ **Fusak**!” echoed in the small clearing.

The hobbit paid their amazement no mind, attending only upon the elf-lady, whose labor pangs seemed to be increasing. Óin followed her instructions with the eagerness of a pupil tempered by the serenity of a master.

The rest of the dwarves could not be so at ease. Thorin’s brow was furrowed and his stomach heavy as he observed the lady’s labor, wincing as much as her husband -- Gilheru of Celondim, apparently, a name which made the halfling giggle -- at each cry of pain. The experience looked truly miserable, and he found himself growing even more in awe of his sister, who had done this _twice_. That Miss Baggins claimed her grandmother had endured birth _twelve times_ seemed beyond belief. Glóin, Thorin noticed, was holding his keepsake of his wife and son’s portraits close to his heart, eyes fixed on the scene before him. The elf-lady wailed anew, wailed as if she had suffered a death-wound. But no matter how loudly she cried, how long her pains seems to continue, neither Óin nor Miss Baggins ever looked worried -- Miss Baggin’s face was almost regal in its composure -- and Thorin reassured himself that all was going well.

Gilheru agonized a few paces away from his wife, neither brave enough to go closer nor calm enough to stay far enough away to afford her some peace. Gandalf eventually took the elf in hand, guiding him to a spot on the other side of the clearing where they could keep an eye on the birth without being in the way of the industrious halfling lass. 

“Now tell me, Master Gilheru,” Gandalf asked with a weary groan, leaning heavily on his staff as he eased his old bones onto an upthrust root, not far from where Thorin stood with Dwalin and Balin. “How does an elf find himself so far from aid with his lady this close to her time?”

Gilheru tensed, looking anxiously over his shoulder. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, Mithrandir,” he explained in a low, tight voice, matching the Common Tongue that the wizard used. “We should have been in Rivendell almost a month past.”

“It is not like the elves to execute their travels so poorly,” Gandalf observed, though his voice withheld any note of censure.

“Just before we reached the Sarn Ford, we came across a settlement ravaged by sickness. We stayed, my lady-wife being a healer, until the illness had passed.” Gilheru straightened his shoulders, drawing himself up. “We should have heeded the Rangers; they have driven orc bands from the Greenway.”

At that note, Gandalf’s eyes strayed to the dwarven trio; disturbed at the mention of orcs, they listened intently to Gilheru’s words.

“The captain of the Dúnedain camp warned that more had been seen to the north and the west,” Gilheru went on. “I thought that the closer we got to Rivendell, the safer we would be, and since entering the Trollshaws that has held true, but I saw signs of orc bands twice on the other side of the Bridge, and once on this side, three days ago.”

“Have you now?” Gandalf hid his concern well, reaching into a pouch at his waist to withdraw his pipe, even as Thorin made a short gesture to Dwalin, and the martial dwarf turned immediately, calling out to the dwarf band in a muted command. Drawn from their makeshift camp around the elf-lady, the dwarrow crowded around Dwalin for a long moment as he gave quiet orders in an undertone, then dispersed. Bombur and Ori stayed near the fire, setting up camp, and most of the remainder slipped into the woods, taking posts to ensure the safety of their laboring charge. Nori, emboldened by Thorin’s nod, took a position half-hidden behind the wizard and the male elf.

“We sought refuge at night with the farmfolk in the hills, but they are fewer and farther between than they once were.” Gilheru folded his arms close to his chest; at a glance, he looked the very picture of a serene elven lord, but a moment’s closer inspection revealed his strain. “They are frightened, Mithrandir. Tis not just their neighbors moving closer to town, but several steadings have been raided.”

At this, Gandalf stiffened, asking the question that the dwarves most wanted answered. “Where?”

“Farmer Hallam, to the southwest of Weathertop; Farmer Stanric, in the fork of the Hornwell River; and the Mægth steading in the easternmost foothills of the Misty Mountains.” The elf’s recounting of steadings raided by orcs spoke of a wide swath cut into previously safe lands; Thorin’s eyes, drawn by a sharp movement in the forest just beyond the wizard, watched as Nori stalked off into the undergrowth and out of earshot.

Gandalf’s frown deepened. “The Mægth? I was there just about a year ago. They were doing quite well for themselves, or so I thought.”

“They were raided three months ago,” Gilheru replied. “The entire steading, razed to the ground. The few bodies the searchers found had been left to rot after the orcs ate their fill, and their families have not been seen anywhere safe. It is believed the orcs took them.”

“As dinner, if they were lucky,” Thorin interjected grimly. “Their slaves face a fate much worse than mere meat.” The dwarrow king was interrupted by a cry from the elf-lady, and gritted his teeth. “Tell me, elf, what brought you out of the settlements in the south of the Blue Mountains at all? I understood that there are many great healers in your lands.”

“My lady-wife is a healer in her own right,” Gilheru repeated, watching as Billa flagged down Ori to fetch her more water. “She is the midwife that attends at births in our settlement, and who is called upon when births are unexpectedly difficult outside of our home.” He smoothed the front of his robes, trying desperately to keep his face calm as his wife turned red and snatched Óin’s hand, crushing it with her own. “She felt most comfortable under her own mother’s hands, a healer of great lore who resides at the home of Lord Elrond.”

“Why not have her mother join you in your settlement?” Balin asked gently. “Seems the safer route.”

Gilheru shook his head. “Her mother does not travel. When next she leaves Rivendell, it will be to take the road to the Grey Haven.”

The daylight was mostly gone when the child crowned, and a few long moments later Óin was holding a shrieking, wet, beautiful girl-child in his arms. A rag was sacrificed to clean her up, and then the babe was placed in the arms of her weeping mother.

Under Miss Baggins’ direction, the babe nursed without fuss, and soon was asleep in her mother’s care. Her father, too, had found his standing and made his way over to his wife and child, holding both of them tightly yet gently in a protective embrace. Thorin let himself smile at the scene -- a child was always a blessing, even an elven one -- but gestured to the returning Company to gather up their things, intending to move a bit away from the young family, give them some privacy, before setting up camp for the night.

“No, no, no!” cried Gilheru, waking his daughter. “You can’t go, please!” He pleaded over his child’s startled wails.

“You are well on the path to your city, and my dwarrow have found nothing dangerous in these woods,” Thorin told him, mentally adding the _anymore_.

“But… how can you be sure! And what if she -- either of them -- needs help before we reach the city? Please, _please_ come with us! I’ll pay, if --” his hands moved towards his money bag.

“There’s no need for _that_ ,” Thorin tried very hard not to growl, knowing the insult was unintentional. He exchanged unhappy glances with Balin and Dwalin, but really, they had no other options. Instinct and honor would allow nothing else. To leave behind a mother and child -- a newborn child at that -- would be unfitting of any bearded folk, after they had been implored for aid and support. Really, there was only one thing Thorin could say.

“We will see you safely to Rivendell.” He turned away, barking orders to hide his ill-temper; twas no fault of the bairn that her parents insisted upon going to Rivendell, he reasoned, but he suspected that Gandalf would be insufferable. 

He was right. The parents were profuse in their thanks, Gandalf beamed, the babe kept crying, and the burglar looked intrigued. Thorin turned his back and scowled; his Company was no happier at being required to enter that elven place, but what must be done… must be done.

As dawn broke over the new day, the camp was swiftly packed and guards posted down the procession, and the group made good time. Thorin had hoped they could quietly deposit the elven mother and male-child -- as well as the babe they carried -- on Rivendell’s doorstep, as it were, and sneak away, the elves none the wiser. Unfortunately it was not to be. Before they have even fully descended into the valley, they were greeted with the most infantile of songs.

> _O! What are you doing,_  
>  And where are you going?  
>  Your ponies need shoeing!  
>  The river is flowing!  
>  O! Tra-la-la-lally  
>  Here down in the valley! 
> 
> _O! Will you be staying,_  
>  Or will you be flying?  
>  Your ponies are straying!  
>  The daylight is dying!  
>  To fly would be folly,  
>  To stay would be jolly  
>  And listen and hark  
>  Till the end of the dark  
>  To our tune  
>  Ha! Ha! 

“Nonsense upon nonsense!” Glóin huffed, “my wee lad can come up with better rhymes!” But the singing elves seated in the trees above them only laughed.

“Don’t dip your beards in the foam, Fathers!” they further teased as the Company approached a bridge next to a frothing waterfall. “They’re long enough without watering!”

Thorin and all his dwarves were thus in a foul mood by the time they crossed the flimsy little elven bridge into Rivendell proper, and the party assembled to greet them did nothing to soften his temper. A elf male wearing a silver circlet stood in the center, flanked on either side by identical elves -- obviously brothers -- who wore long, curved swords upon their hips. Other elves stood a step behind the three, smiling with their mouths but rarely with their eyes.

The wizard hurried to attend to the central figure -- apparently the lord of the place -- speaking in the soft tongue of the elves. The elves among them, too, quickly approached the tall figures, and parents and child were quickly escorted into the hidden city. Listening half-heartedly to the words of elves and wizard, Thorin noted that he recognized a few words here and there, but overall was rather perversely pleased to realize he had almost completely forgotten the language.

The lord -- Elrond, Thorin begrudgingly recalled -- turned to the Company.

“Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, I bid you welcome to Imladris.” He held out his arms in a general indication of the hidden valley. 

Thorin raised a sardonic brow. “I do not believe we have met.”

The elf’s mouth twitched. “You have your grandfather’s bearing; I knew Thrór when he was King Under the Mountain.”

“Really? He made--” a hard elbow into his ribcage -- when had Balin displaced Dwalin from his right side? -- cut off his reply, but the elf’s smirk suggested he knew very well what it had been. The tall elf turned to his servants, speaking in that infernal tongue of his.

“What is he saying?” Glóin demanded, pushing his way to the front, jostling the hobbit from the protected center of the dwarven ring. “Does he offer us insult?”

“He’s offering us _food_ ,” the halfling huffed, wriggling her way clear of clanking dwarven metal and turning to scowl at Glóin. “And I’m going to accept his kind offer, even if your stubborn hides would prefer to remain out here!”

Glóin, fierce and blustering Glóin, actually took a step back from the irate hobbit lass, mumbling his apologies before turning back to their elven hosts.

“Well, then, in that case… lead on?”

###### 

**Translations:**

_Sindarin_  
_Gilheru_ : Star lord

**Khuzdul**  
**Durthurathâkh** : Dourhands  
**Fusak** : an oath, highly impolite  
**Tharkûn** : Khuzdul name for Gandalf


	4. Gifts from the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Authors’ Note:** Welcome back! We hope that you enjoy our romp through Tolkien’s world. If you recognize it, it’s probably from Tolkien or Peter Jackson. If it’s an non-Tolkienian idea you’ve seen before in fanfiction, feel free to assume it’s a (most likely) subconscious allusion/tribute to the original author. Happy reading! Elle and Rhi

# Gifts from the Past

Later, Billa would be absolutely horrified with herself, that she did not, before dining at the table of the lord of Rivendell himself, beg leave to depart to wash herself (at the very least her hands, face, and feet!); but she was so very tired and hungry, after a sleepless night of terror followed by a long (if much less fearful and much more rewarding) day of attending to a birthing mother. Moreover, she was very fond of elves, at least the elves she had met by and by in the Shire, on their way to the Grey Havens, and this was her first opportunity to observe them in their native situation, as it were, not to mention explore the city her mother had loved so, and she was determined to make the most of it.

They were led into an open courtyard, bright and beautiful, with two long tables set end to end. Gandalf led her to a place at the first, a little ways down from Lord Elrond’s seat at the head, but elevated enough to make her blush to take it. Thorin was seated on the lord’s right, Gandalf on his left, and Billa next to the wizard; Balin took the seat next to his king, across from the halfling.

It was quiet for a while, Elrond apparently content to let his guests relax and ease into the social graces. But eventually, Balin broke the silence.

“You speak Sindarin, Miss Baggins?”

Billa turned away from admiring the masonry back to her companion.

‘Why...yes. Yes, of course.” She shrugged. “The Rangers speak Sindarin as their first tongue, you know, and prefer to use it while on patrol, especially if unfriendly ears could be listening. So anyone who might be a Bounder -- all of the Tooks, most of the Brandybucks and Bolgers -- learn it young.” Billa smiled sadly. “I learned it when I was very little; Father used to tell stories of me, learning my letters, confusing Westron and Hobbitish and Sindarin, mixing them all together in a single sentence ‘like an overgrown garden’.” She gave a small laugh. “He loved languages, my father.”

She looked down, the memories a heavy weight upon her heart. Her companions shifted awkwardly for a few long moments, before their host came to their rescue.

“You bear a new weapon, Mithrandir,” he noted with a graceful nod.

The wizard held out his sword. “We encountered trolls on our journey here,” he said heavily, eyes under beetling brows watching the reaction of the Elven lord, “and found their cave, filled with loot. This, and Thorin’s new blade,” he gestured for the dwarven king to offer his sword, which he did, albeit scowling, “were among the chief treasures we found.” Elrond took each blade in turn, unsheathed and examined it, his face shining with awe.

“These are not troll make,” murmured the elf lord. Dwalin snorted from his place beside Balin. 

“That is obvious enough.” 

His brother sighed, but Elrond seemed unaffected. “They are old swords, very old swords of the High Elves of the West -- made in Gondolin for the struggle against Morgoth the Accursed. This, Thorin Oakenshield,” he held up the single-edged blade, “is Orcrist, the Cleaver, which the orcs of Beleriand shrunk back even from rumor of. You, my friend,” he turned to Gandalf, “have claimed an even greater prize. This is Glamdring, the Foe-hammer, once the sword of Turgon the King himself.” 

“But however did _trolls_ get them?” Billa wondered aloud, thoroughly distracted from her grief. 

“Raiding raiders, and plundering plunderers, I imagine.” Elrond answered. “Such creatures have no honor or bond of friendships, and fellows that come together for wickedness often break in wickedness. Little wonder that these swords, first falling into mean and grasping hands, would continue to fall into meaner and meaner ones. It was a good deed you did, son of Thráin, in liberating these from a troll’s hoard.”

The dwarf king bristled, but Balin nodded. “It would have been a shame, to leave such swords to languish in musty caves. They have served the Free Peoples well against the darkness, if you be right about their origins.”

“And they shall again, if I am right in my judgements of Mithrandir and your king,” added Elrond.

Thorin pondered these words. “I will keep this sword,” he said at last, “in honor. May it soon cleave orcs once again!”

“A wish that is likely to be granted soon enough, in days such as these,” Elrond answered him with a significant look at Gandalf. 

“Keep an eye to your blade on our road ahead, Master Dwarf,” said the wizard. “Elf blades glow blue when orcs are close.”

Dwalin huffed. “All bairns know that, **Tharkûn**.”

“Perhaps.” Elrond answered before Gandalf could. “But let us leave such tidings aside, for here come my servants with our meal!”

Everyone turned with eagerness to watch the platters be set down, but most of the Company’s mood soured quickly, as no meat was visible amongst the fruit, nuts, and greens. Billa and Gandalf ate happily enough, and Bifur sniffed at and ate several of the more fragrant fruits, but the rest merely picked at their plates. To Billa’s horror, they did not wait long in making their displeasure known.

Nori began, taking three large oranges from one platter and juggling them. Kili joined right in, taking an orange in each hand and, at Nori’s signal, throwing them at him, one than another. The nimble dwarf easily added them to his growing juggling collection, and then all decorum was gone. 

Even as Elrond gestured with a raised eyebrow for the next course, each dwarf, save Balin and Thorin, who were too dignified to take part -- though they were smiling at the display -- added something in turn to the juggling, until Dwalin attempted to toss a wine glass into the fray. (Billa noted with alarm Elrond’s eyes tracking the glass’s progress through the air.) Nori caught the delicate glass, but it did not take to being juggled, and flew too far, crashing at the foot of an elven servant. That might not have deterred the dwarves much, except that this servant carried another platter, filled with fish.

Glad to have at least some protein, even if not proper meat, the dwarves calmed somewhat, though they still sang and laughed and threw food at each other. Thorin encouraged his companions with a smug smile, even if his individual actions remained as dignified as ever.

Billa was mortified. She longed to bury her face in her hands, but Gandalf’s hand rested on her shoulder, squeezing gently. She looked up at him, and he glanced at their host. She dared a look, and, to her amazement, it looked like the elf lord was moments away from _laughing_.

Her wide eyes brought forth Gandalf’s own mirth.

“You may rest, my dear Biliana, in the house of Elrond _Peredhel_ ; he is strong as a warrior, as wise as a wizard, as venerable as a king of dwarves, and as kind as summer. He has lived through three ages of the world, and little of the natures of other beings is foreign to him.” Gandalf’s eyes twinkled brightly, his wide smile hidden behind his beard. “He knew what he risked to his cutlery, inviting dwarves to his dinner!”

Billa gave the wizard a weak smile, still embarrassed beyond all measure, but slowly she relaxed, and began to enjoy her opportunity to observe the elves. Gandalf was on her right, but to her left was one of the twin warriors from the welcoming party; his brother was a few spots away. They, too, seemed in good humor as they watched the dwarves, and Billa even caught the second one slipping more food Kili’s way during one of the many food-fights waged in the Last Homely House that night. 

A third course arrived, with venison and vegetables and hearty bread. Bread and meat was quickly devoured, and even most of the vegetables were consumed. Lord Elrond seemed to be familiar with the eating habits of hobbits, as he directed an attendant to refill Billa’s plate twice before the venison could disappear into dwarven stomachs.

Dessert was light, a simple assortment of what Billa would call tea cakes, but sweet and delightful. As the dwarves began to groan and lean back from the table, Billa couldn’t help but smile and shake her head. The movement disturbed her matted hair, and several dirty locks fell into her face.

With a grimace, she pushed them away. Employing her most pleading eyes, the ones she had used when she had wanted Father to take her to Buckland or Bree, she turned to Lord Elrond.

“Master Elrond,” she began, blushing when he turned his attention to her. Fingers worrying her skirt underneath the table, she took a deep breath and continued. 

“You have been most generous, most hospitable, _hîr nín,_ ” she ignored the snorts she heard from several dwarves. “But I’m afraid I’m going to be brash and impose upon your good nature once again; is there any possibility of being led to a place to wash up tonight?”

Their host nodded at the halfling. “Of course.” He gestured to one of the female attendants, and she made to lead the hobbit away. Dwalin growled, but Gandalf held up a hand.

“No harm will come to your charge here, Master Dwalin, I assure you. But the same might not be said of you if you try to prevent Belladonna Took’s daughter a good bath!”

Elrond looked at Billa with more interest. “You are Belladonna’s daughter?”

She nodded, curtseying. “Biliana Baggins, at your service.”

“Ah… so she did catch her Baggins.” He smiled softly, “She spoke of him often, and I confess, her descriptions of his bewilderment could be quite amusing.”

Billa felt her mouth twitch upwards, even as her heart twinged. “Father was often bewildered by Mother, but they caught each other, in the end.”

The attendant took her arm again, and led her away, down winding hallways until they reached a beautiful bathing chamber, filled with soaps and cloths and a large pool of hot, hot water. Billa sighed as she entered the bath, feeling all the sores and stress in her muscles. As she relaxed, she suddenly giggled at herself, and all her fretting at dinner. After all, she admitted, it could have been worse; at least none of her dwarves had tried walking on Master Elrond’s table!

*****

Thorin was not having a good night. Balin and Dwalin grew more and more anxious, the longer their charge was out of their sight in that elven place, and that in turn tied Thorin’s own nerves all the tighter; he had to physically restrain himself from castigating the hobbit when she finally reappeared, beaming and spotless, her red-brown hair damp and curling around her shoulders. He resolved to speak to Dori on the marrow, to have him instruct the halfling as to her responsibilities towards the sons of Fundin in exchange for their extension of **shakt'ashmâru**. 

The hobbit was greeted merrily by many of his Company; Nori had found wine, and plenty of it, and if it wasn’t good dwarven beer -- or hobbit, which was surprisingly satisfactory -- it still served to merry their hearts and loosen their cheer. Dwalin relaxed as he saw their hobbit was unharmed, and once her hair was rebound to his satisfaction he was easily convinced to pull out his fiddle, and Bofur’s tin flute was swift to come to his lips. Thorin slipped away before his nephews could prevail upon him to play his harp.

The dwarf king did not begrudge his companions their merriment, but his heart was too troubled to partake. He had been impressed, against his will, by Elrond’s knowledge of the swords, and he began to suspect that the wizard might be right -- Elrond might indeed be able to tell him more of his grandfather’s map than his own eyes could. His grandfather had been very skilled with runes, and knowledgeable of the lost ways of imbuing power into the written word, a subject Thorin himself had no chance to study after Erebor fell. He winced, the idea painful even to think, but if this Elrond had in fact known his grandfather before the dragon, before the madness…

Voices made him pause. Looking over a hedge, he saw Elrond and the wizard walking in the level below, deep in conversation.

“You play a dangerous game, Mithrandir. I worry what will happen should your hand be trumped.” The elf-lord delicately lifted his skirts to cross over a decorative bridge, the wizard trotting along after him.

“Dangerous to play, perhaps, but more dangerous to walk away from the table without an attempt!” the old man leaned heavily on his staff as he implored Elrond’s approval. “How long has the dragon lingered where he does not belong, in fearful proximity to Dol Guldur? Might there not already be an alliance between dragon and Necromancer, to the peril of the North?”

Thorin’s ears grew red as he listened, as it was clear that **Tharkûn** had imparted to the elf-lord not only the general idea, but many particulars of the quest -- _his_ quest, without Thorin’s consult or permission. **Makalfûn ûdar**! How like elves and wizards it was, to scheme and judge the plans of others, without their knowledge or input! Would Tharkûn abandon them, if this Elrond disapproved? Would the elves claim credit, for their benevolent aid, of the dwarves’ success, if and when it came? What reward would they demand for their passive assistance, for permitting the dwarves to seek their homeland and inheritance?

Furious beyond measure, Thorin stormed away, wanting to hear no more of the schemes of elves and wizards. He fumed for some time, walking with no clear direction, until he was utterly past his elementary knowledge of the place. When he thought himself cooled enough to return to his Company, he could not easily retrace his steps. He tried, futilely, to recover his bearings, but to his dwarven eye, the dainty bannisters and soft flowers all looked alike, and no other obvious signposts availed themselves to him. 

“Hello!”

Thorin blinked, looking down at the moppet that had attached itself to his side. 

“I’m Estel! Who are you? Are you a dwarf?” Thorin got the impression of dark hair and eyes before the youngling raced onward. “Elladan said that there were dwarves! Erestor didn’t look happy, but Elrohir was!”

Thorin smiled at the earnest young boy, who, surprisingly, looked human.

“I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór,” he answered. “And what brings a son of men to Rivendell?” 

The boy shrugged. “We live here; me and my mother.”

Thorin’s brow furrowed, but he did not press. The lad was so young he might not understand the significance of his circumstances, but perhaps Nori or Balin could, under the appearance of good humor, find out more in their time here. He looked back at the boy, smiling when he saw that the lad appeared fascinated with the pommel of his sword.

“Would you like to see the blade?” he asked.

Estel nodded so eagerly his dark locks flew. “Please!”

He unsheathed Orcrist, approving of the awe-filled but keen look the boy gave the weapon. His young eyes danced across the blade, but he clearly noted the beauty and deadliness of the sword.

“This is Orcrist, the Cleaver, or so Lord Elrond has named it.” He turned the blade slowly, letting the child look his fill.

The boy looked up from the sword to its wielder. 

“And… have you cleaved orcs?”

“With this? Not yet. But I have before I received this blade, and doubtless will again.”

“Good,” the boy’s expression turned dark. “Orcs killed my father; I don’t even remember him, but Mother is always sad because of it.”

Thorin swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat, even as he was pleased by the young one’s clear **rukhsúlsuz**.

“An orc -- tall, fae, and white-- killed my grandfather,” he confessed. “I will kill as many of them as I can.”

The boy nodded firmly. His mouth opened, perhaps to ask another question, but a low, melodious voice interrupted.

“Estel? It is quite late for you to be out and about, my son! Gilraen will be worried.”

The lad sighed at Elrond’s words, but he did not dispute them. He gave Thorin a mournful look.

“Goodnight, Master Thorin; if I don’t see you again, cleave many orcs for me!” The lad gave Elrond a quick hug around his middle, and ran into the night.

Thorin gave the elf a look. “Who is that boy?”

Elrond gazed upon the dwarrow king. “One whom, one day, might claim his own kingdom in the East.” He took a step towards Thorin, folding his hands, “I am glad to see you tonight, son of Thráin; I have much of which I would speak with you.”

“I doubt there is much you need to speak _with_ me,” Thorin spat, easily surmising his meaning, “After your conference with Tharkûn, surely all you need is to speak _to_ me of my own matters.”

Elrond raised an eyebrow, but otherwise did not react to Thorin’s anger.

“You mistake me, Thorin Oakenshield, and my intentions,” the elf lord held up his right hand placatingly. “True, I have spoken with Mithrandir, but that has only increased my desire to converse with you. For, as you must know, he can give me only part of the story.”

Appeased slightly, Thorin relented, at least in part. “What do you wish to ask me?”

Clear blue eyes that seemed to see more than the visible world fixed themselves upon his face. 

“Why do you seek the Mountain, son of Thráin, son of Thrór?”

Had the question been asked any less neutrally, with any hint of judgment or censure, Thorin’s cooling temper would have flamed again into a rage. As it was, he was able to answer calmly.

“My people, my friends and kin, have been homeless for too long. I seek to regain their home.”

“You have established halls, I hear, in the Blue Mountains. Does Ered Luin not suffice?”

Thorin laughed humorlessly. “What sort of home is that? Exiled, in territory that we are allowed to remain only by the ‘beneficence’ of those whose loyalty is, rightly speaking, due to ourselves? Every year, whispers reach me that the lords who let those mountains sit empty debate charging us rent, or claiming ownership of the mines we delved with our own hands!” Thorin began to pace, struggling to keep hold of his resentment as the elf watched with sympathetic eyes. “No… No! I will not be content with that, with my people scrapping for coal in borrowed holes while our true home remains just out of reach.”

The elf lord remained silent for some time, and Thorin suspected he had learned more than simply what his words had said.

“I cannot pretend that your journey does not fill my heart with apprehension; rather the line of Durin sit in exile, to my mind, than be extinguished facing dragon’s fire. But that is not my choice to make, and I also cannot deny that I have long wished for a means of removing that Worm from this world.” Elrond turned, an arm welcoming Thorin to walk beside him, and began navigating the delicate pathways in which Thorin had been so hopelessly lost with consummate skill. “Your quest is bold, but sometimes boldness is what the Powers of this world desire and reward. You will find no opposition here, but only as much aid as you desire. If you merely wish to rest, so be it. If you need supplies, they are yours. If, as Mithrandir has intimated, you need advice or guidance, only ask, and it shall be given you, with as much thought and insight as I can manage.” Elrond paused, turning to the dwarven king, the lights of the eating pavilion peeking through the trees, and Thorin could just hear the merry sounds of his Company.

Together they stood in silence for a long moment, until the exiled king was ready to decide. Taking a deep breath, Thorin answered.

“There is a map, made by my grandfather’s hand, which had found its way into Gandalf’s keeping. He suspects that there is more there than the untrained eye can see.”

Elrond smiled at the dwarven king, knowing what he wanted but could not bring himself to ask. 

“Bring it to breakfast, and we shall see if Mithrandir’s suppositions are correct.”

 

Breakfast the next morning was delicious and filling, but Thorin could not enjoy it. The map, tucked into his overcoat, was a heavy weight over his heart. As was Dwalin’s silence; he had not been pleased when Thorin confessed his plans to him the night before.

Resolved to be done with it as soon as possible, Thorin stood even before Bombur and the halfling were finished eating. Balin nodded, encouraging, but the smug face of the wizard made Thorin falter. He mastered himself, however, and placed the map in Elrond’s waiting hands. Lord Elrond gazed upon the map in silence a long time, until even Balin began shift his weight from one foot to the other. Finally, the elf shook his head, and a bemused smile graced his face.

“Clever… I had forgotten how clever, how foresighted your grandfather had been, Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór. There are moon-letters here.”

“What are moon-letters?” Miss Baggins asked the question that was on everyone’s lips, almost quivering with curiosity. The elf lord smiled down at her, but addressed his answer to the whole assembly.

“Moon-letters are rune-letters, but ones that cannot be seen by looking straight at them. They can only be seen when the moon shines behind them, and with the more cunning sort, of which these most certainly are, it must be a moon if the same shape and season as the day upon which they were written.” Elrond held the parchment close to his face, tilting it first one way, then the other, his words coming more as an afterthought. “Otherwise, they cannot even be detected, except by one both very skilled in runes and familiar with the creator. Had I been less studied in lore, or knew your grandfather less well…” Elrond shook his head with a soft smile.

“Can you read them now?” Thorin asked, impressed and intrigued.

“No… that must wait for a…” he inspected the parchment again, “crescent moon on a midsummer’s eve, the same as when your grandfather wrote them upon the parchment.”

The dwarves grumbled, and dread crept in Thorin’s heart, but before it could take root Óin exclaimed, “By my beard! Midsummer Eve this year is of the crescent moon, and only two weeks away!”

Elrond nodded. “Indeed. While I suspect your Quest would push you on in haste, I trust your lingering here will not be without benefit. Avail yourselves of all my valley has to offer: refill your stores and rest your weary feet. Two weeks hence, I will tell you what secrets your  
grandfather left behind.”

*****

Billa thoroughly enjoyed her time in Rivendell. Food was plentiful and excellent (though the elves followed mannish custom -- or was it the other way around? -- and ate only three meals a day, a platter of tea and accompanying sandwiches and cakes found her at least twice a day, no matter where she roamed around the city). The air was clean, the weather fair, and their elven hosts were always willing to share a story or a song. 

Her companions, despite their grumblings, also seemed to enjoy themselves. They ate and drank in abundance, enough to impress even a hobbit, and spent their days … doing something. Billa had been educated by Dori as to how she ought to act towards Balin and Dwalin, her ‘kin’ for the journey, but once she finished drills with Dwalin, and he had redone her braids for the day (“a warrior’s hair ought not to be in the way, ever,” he had told her, and he always made her braid her hair -- practice, he said -- before they began. But her skills in hair ornamentation could not hold up against his martial training, and inevitably he ended up gently re-securing her hair away from her face, only to immediately resume barking orders at her), she would tell him her plans for the remaining daylight and then she rarely saw any of the company again until luncheon, and afterwards until dinner. Evenings, when apparently dwarrow were especially vigilant of their female relations, she spent with the Company, learning dwarven songs and dances. It was Nori’s idea to teach her, but Billa’s favorite partner was Fili, who had a very sure and noble step. He claimed to have been taught by Thorin, but the dwarven king never condescended to dance. She found she quite liked dwarven dances, being less frantic but no less feeling than hobbit ones, and yet she often felt something was missing during her lessons, no matter how much Nori, Bofur, or even Balin praised her graceful steps.

Her lessons with Dwalin Billa liked a good deal less. He proved a hard but master teacher, and even just a few mornings’ work had her holding her little sword with much more confidence, even if she was not sure how she stood at all when he was finished with her.

One such morning, after an exhausting session that left her with a weariness even a good bath could not dispel, Glóin approached her as she was lying upon a wooden bench, beautifully carved, letting the sun dry her hair. Asking her leave, he joined her, sitting on the other half of the bench, settling a mess of silver links and moonstones in his lap.

“This had been a gift from a king of our line to Elrond, many years past. It was broken by accident, but repairs would take a _dwarrow_ jeweler. He asked Thorin if there was one among us, and well,” he shrugged, but looked more than a touch smug.

“I didn’t realize you were a jeweler!” Billa smiled up at him.

“Aye,” he mumbled, most of his attention already on his work. “My Hætha, too. But our Gimli… he hasn’t taken to it one bit!”

Billa tilted her head. “Gimli? That’s your son, right? What he’s like?”

Glóin beamed. “He’s still young, only turned sixty-two this spring, but he’s restless with **rukhsúlsuz** \-- that is, the wanting to slay his first orc. He’s turning out into an excellent fighter, will be better when he finished growing into his beard!” His eyes twinkled, inviting Billa to join in his merriment. “Truth be told, he’s been Battle-Ready for years, but he’s proven better at swinging his axe than thinking about where to put it!”

Billa chuckled. “I know many young hobbits who would fit that description quite well themselves,” she agreed. “Is there a reason he didn’t join the expedition, if only to appease his --please forgive my pronunciation-- ruk-sul-sues?”

“ **Rukhsúlsuz** ,” Glóin said again, amused by her attempt. “He threw quite the fit when he found out he wasn’t joining us,” he admitted, “but Hætha and I were firm; Thorin, too, didn’t want anyone underage among us. I think he would have left Kili behind, too, if he didn’t know the lad would just follow after!” he laughed, and Billa joined in, even as she tried to imagine one of her stern dwarf-friends throwing a fit. “My Gimli is a good boy, has a keen sense for stone -- he’ll make a fine mason someday.”

“Does he look like you?”

“Aye! All bushy red beard; Hætha says she feels quite outnumbered by us, some days, though in truth we are only two!” His hands remained focused on his task, still and precise, even as his frame shook with the force of his laughter. The hobbit and dwarf remained seated on that bench, the one eager to ask and the other eager to talk about his family, until the luncheon bell rang.

The next morning Dwalin was busy with Thorin, so Billa took the opportunity to visit the library with Ori. But the elven librarian had not learned much patience, no matter how many years he had, nor gained many social graces. He mostly ignored Ori, having grown used to the quiet dwarf, but he did little to make the hobbit feel welcome in his domain. Billa was not sorry when Ori confided that he did intend to return after lunch. Ori invited her to dine with his brothers, but Billa demurred in order to eat with the Fundins instead; in truth, spending time with Nori and his piercing gaze and subtle questions made her uncomfortable. She was becoming quite fond her dwarves, but she wasn’t yet sure enough of any of them to share the deepest secrets of her race.  
Instead, she met her temporary kinsmen for a lovely lunch, and afterwards told Dwalin that she simply wished to wander around the city, enjoying a few hours of peace and quiet before their journey continued. She ought to have been made suspicious by his smirk, or by his lack of insistence that someone join her.

“Enjoy yourself, lass; we certainly intend to!”

Unfortunately, the mischief in his eyes went unnoticed by Biliana, until she stumbled, during her ramblings, across a most unfortunate sight: her dwarves, as bare as the day they were born, positively frolicking in a large fountain! And not just Fili and Kili, whose youth might have excused them, or Bofur and Nori, whose mischievousness was quickly becoming legendary in Rivendell, but also shy Ori and proper Dori, and even stern Dwalin and noble Balin! Everyone was there, roughhousing and splashing and swimming: even -- her eyes fell upon him with shock -- Thorin! He leaned against the edge of the fountain, arms bent and resting upon the bronze lip, as content and smug as a tomcat basking in the sun as he watched his companions play. For a moment, Billa was struck dumb by the sight of the smiling, muscular king. She quickly recovered herself, shaking her head with force.

Fleeing the sight of her publicly bathing ( _naked_!) companions, Billa soon found herself in an absolutely stunning garden, with just the perfect balance of natural freedom and gardener’s ordering. She wandered for some time, losing herself in the calm air and light scents of nature. Eventually, she stumbled upon a pavilion of much more solid structure than its surroundings. Intrigued, Billa entered the enclosed space. Inside, she found a carved relief wrapped all along the curved interior, depicting… Billa frowned, trying to interpret the images. She could see forges, and beautiful elf-lords, but her limited knowledge of forge-crafts hindered her understanding. And why did the two central figures appear to be wrestling?

“Have you lost your companions, Miss Baggins?”

She turned to see their host enter the pavilion. 

“ _Hîr nín_ Elrond.” She curtsied. “Not at all! I was just enjoying your gardens, and my friends...” she hesitated. “Are… enjoying your hospitality in other ways.”

He chuckled. “That is one way to refer to their turning a fountain into a bath-house.”

She blushed deeply, and tried to apologize for the Company, but he waved her off.

“They are not the first, and may not be the last, to use that place as a swimming hole. My sons did, when they were young, perhaps then still even smaller than you,” he smiled down at her. “Your friends have done no harm, and have given my servants much to talk of over the next few dozen years.”

She blushed, but was willing to let the matter rest. Seeing his generous mood, she turned back to the carved pavillion and asked, “These images… what do they portray?”

His smile fell from his face, not in anger but in sadness.

“Celebrimbor and Sauron the Deceiver.” His eyes fixed upon the central images, and he sighed.

“The Deceiver came among my kindred in Eregion, in fair semblance long ago, during the years of the twilight of Númenor.” As he spoke, he paced the wall, pausing before each image in turn. “Annatar, Lord of Gifts, he called himself, and offered to teach them much in the making of fair and powerful objects. He found a too-willing audience in Celebrimbor -- the grandson of Fëanor and his heir in skill -- and his smiths.” Elrond shook his head. 

“Ring lore especially was Celebrimbor’s love, and the Deceiver played upon his desire. Three rings, intended for elven fingers, Celebrimbor made, by his own hands and skill alone, but using the knowledge provided by Annatar. Pleased by their fair appearance and great power, he again turned to the Gift-Lord, and together they made rings, seven for dwarves and nine for men; but Sauron’s malice had not dwindled, and his plans were deep. He returned in the shadows of night to the forge.” His hand rested against the central carven figure.

“Elven eyes are keen, and the watchmen noted a darkness entering the place. Alarmed, Celebrimbor and his followers came to the forge, there to discover the Deceiver uncloaked, laboring over another ring: a master ring, with which he intended to rule over all the others. In the red light of the forge, Celebrimbor heard Sauron say in the foul Black Speech:

_One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,  
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them!”_

At the words, though spoken in Elrond’s calm, even voice, Billa felt a chill race down her spine, and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

“In that moment, all the deceits of the enemy were exposed, and with a cry Celebrimbor leapt forth, throwing down the forge and casting the moulds upon the ground. The gold pooled upon floor, and the fae letters faded from the cooling slag. Celebrimbor paid for his action with his life.”

Elrond was silent for a time, as Billa kept her eyes fixed upon his face. Eventually, he resumed his tale.

“The designs of the Enemy had been prevented, at least in part. But even unfinished curses have their power. The Three remain free of Sauron’s power, and the Seven mostly, but the Nine…” he sighed. “The Nine were given to kings of men, accustomed to power and lusting for more. Long lives were promised them, and that at least was true, after a fashion. For they linger still, wraiths tied to their rings, utter slaves to the will of Sauron.”

He shook his head, bringing his tale to an end. 

They stood in silence again, Billa looking upon the carved images with new respect and Elrond lost in memories of long ago. 

After a time, Elrond turned back to his guest, taking note of the blade at her hip. “I did not see that blade your first night here, and yet I doubt it has a different origin than the others.”

She spun to look back up at him, stammering, but drew her sword and held it out for his inspection.

“Yes, I mean, Gandalf took it out of the troll cave for me. But it doesn’t have any runes, and it’s so very small, it can’t be…”

“Not all elven blades or things of worth bear runes.” Elrond’s countenance took on a wistful air. “Its make proclaims its lineage; this too was forged in Gondolin. Actually,” he looked down on the stunned hobbit, “it reminds me very much of a blade my father once described to me, a present as a child from his grandfather the King, left behind in the flight from the betrayed city.” 

His smile was genuine but a little sad when he returned the sword to her.

“Bear it well, young Miss Baggins,” he said as she made to return the sword to its sheath. “If you continue your journey, I fear you shall need it.”

She froze in her re-sheathing before looking up at him, askance. “If?”

He sighed, eyes weary. “I see the reason in Mithrandir’s plotting -- and the futility of dissuading one of Durin’s line -- but the road is treacherous, and the goal perilous. I would not have you dragged behind by the force of their wills, if you yourself do not truly wish to be part of this. You are more than welcome to remain here, or to the aid of my guards in returning you home.”

Billa thought hard, choosing her answer carefully. 

“I thank you… but I have given my oath to these dwarves, by spoken word and signature; even if I hadn’t, I couldn’t refuse to help them, not when Gandalf seems to think it so important. Even if I don’t understand _why_ …” she trailed off.

Conversation ended there, but they stood together quietly for some time, contemplating what each had said to the other. Then the elf lord smiled, looking behind him.

“Come to enjoy my gardens, Thorin Oakenshield, or to seek a lost companion?”

The hobbit turned, and indeed Thorin stood behind them in the dying light, fully clothed (thank the Valar), though with dripping hair and a shirt that was almost sheer at parts. 

The dwarven king scowled. “She has been gone for some time.”

Billa struggled not to roll her eyes. She wouldn’t be so foolish as to leave the valley, and so what harm came in her wandering about away from them, especially when they were making such spectacles of themselves? Still, when he gestured imperiously, she gave her curtsey to Lord Elrond.

“ _Diola lle, hîr nín_.”

“ _Seasamin, aier_.” he smiled down at her.

With that, Billa silently followed Thorin out of the pavilion, vainly trying to keep her gaze away from the wetter parts of his person.

 

Biliana had not expected to witness the reading of the Moon-letters; though she would have dearly loved to, she hardly expected Elrond’s study to be large enough for the entire Company, and had no illusions that Thorin would select her to be one of his chosen companions for the event. She was overjoyed therefore, when Gandalf invited her along. She walked in step behind him, like a duckling following its mother, to the moonlit room.

Thorin was already there, with Balin, Dwalin, and Óin, as was Elrond. The elf lord smiled at them.

“Ah, Mithrandir. And Miss Baggins! Welcome, welcome; the light is just about right!” He again accepted the map from Thorin, and indeed, a portion of it had begun to shimmer, though letters themselves were not yet clearly defined. A few breathless moments more, and the shimmering light, like silver newly polished, focused into a number of lines, which Billa recognized as runes, although of a type she could not read.

Neither, apparently, could her dwarven friends, for they scowled at the parchment as fiercely as they ever had at her.

“Well, what does it say?” asked Dwalin, glaring at the map as though personally offended by it.

The elf lord was frowning himself. “I can read the words, but know not their full meaning. Let me read it aloud; perhaps it will mean more to Thrór’s heir than to his friend.” Elrond cleared his throat. 

“Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks,” he read, “and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day shall shine upon the keyhole.”

Gandalf looked as puzzled as Elrond, but the dwarves present took on an air of sudden excitement, their displeasure gone in an instance.

“Durin… by Mahal’s Forge, it _must_ be a sign!” Balin breathed. Dwalin clapped Thorin heartily on the back, grinning like a fool.

“W-what’s Durin?” Billa asked hesitantly. Thorin turned to her, positively beaming.

“Durin was the Father of the Fathers of the eldest race of dwarves, the Longbeards, and my first ancestor; I am his heir.”

Billa grinned back at him, infected by his obvious delight.

“And what is Durin’s Day?” asked Lord Elrond, intrigued.

Thorin looked surprised at his ignorance, but answered pleasantly. “The first day of our new year is the first day of the last moon of Autumn on the threshold of Winter. We call it Durin’s Day when the last moon of Autumn and the sun are in the sky together.”

“A rare event to be sure,” said Gandalf, who looked quite grave. “I wonder when such an event will next happen!”

Thorin laughed, a bubbling sound of hope and excitement that warmed Billa’s from her heart to her toes

“That is the source of our wonder! The next Durin’s Day -- and the only one for some time -- is upon us! This very winter will be welcomed in by the sign that greeted Durin when he awoke from his slumber!”

Gandalf blinked, and Lord Elrond looked amazed. 

“Midsummer of the crescent moon, and Durin’s Day in the year you happen to catch Mithrandir’s attention,” he murmured. “Some strange fate travels with you, Thorin son of Thráin. May it keep you and give you victory, for you sake and the sake of all the North.” With that, he carefully folded up the map and returned it to Thorin’s keeping. 

 

Thrór’s message read, the Company made to depart. Gandalf, however, did not, to Billa’s alarm and Thorin’s indignation.

“I will join you soon enough!” the wizard assured. “Master Elrond and I have business to discuss other than just your concerns, Thorin Oakenshield!”

Further increasing Billa’s sorrow, they were warned that the heavy rains of the last few years had eroded away the wider paths through the Misty Mountains, where their journey took them next, and they would be unable to take the ponies -- at least, they couldn’t if they took the paths they ought to, considering the need to be at the Lonely Mountain by the end of autumn. Elrond offered to house the ponies in his own stable, and send them, along with supplies, as soon as he heard word that their Quest was successful, his people apparently knowing paths that, while far out of the way, could take beasts of burden safely over the mountain range. So Billa had to bid farewell to Myrtle, though she had grown rather fond of the placid little pony, and entrust her to Lord Elrond’s keeping.

She placed in his care also her father’s cittern, as well as a necklace she wore containing a lock of her mother’s hair. His talk of the hardship of her journey had concerned her, and she judged it better that she be temporarily parted from these treasures rather than risk losing them entirely on the hard road. The elf-lord promised they would be kept safe until her return, whensoever that might be.

“ _Quel marth_ ,” he told her. “ _Tenna' ento lye omenta_.”

So it was, with heavy heart, that Biliana Baggins departed from the city of which her mother had been so fond, and would have remained forever, had not love called her back.

She would never see it again.

###### 

**Translations:**

_Sindarin_  
_Aier_ : little one  
_Diola lle_ : thank you  
_Hîr nín_ : my lord  
_Quel marth_ : good luck  
_Seasamin_ : my pleasure  
_Tenna' ento lye omenta_ : until we meet again

**Khuzdul**  
**Makalfûn** : accursed  
**Rukhsúlsuz** : desire to kill an orc  
**Shakt'ashmâru** : temporary kinship  
**Tharkûn** : “staff-man”, Khuzdul name for Gandalf  
**Ûdar** : wizard

###### 

_N.B.: The dwarves, by all accounts in the book, ought to have been able to read the moon-letters themselves, as it is simply transcribed in cirth (the runes used by Erebor dwarves), with no indication that it is in a dead or unusual language, but this reduces the need to have Elrond read the letters at all. The idea of “ancient dwarfish” from the movie is also unsatisfactory from a Tolkien lore perspective (Elle has always suspected that Khuzdul, being given to the dwarves by Mahal himself, would be unlikely to significantly change as normal languages do throughout the years, and Rhi nodded along sagely), but, as the runes in the map Tolkien drew is simply transliterated English, not Khuzdul, we felt it an acceptable change to make it a non-Khuzdul language of lore, known to both Thrór and Elrond, but not to Thorin, Balin, or Gandalf.  
\--Elle and Rhi_


	5. Deep in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Authors’ Note:** Welcome back! We hope that you enjoy our romp through Tolkien’s world. If you recognize it, it’s probably from Tolkien or Peter Jackson. If it’s an non-Tolkienian idea you’ve seen before in fanfiction, feel free to assume it’s a (most likely) subconscious allusion/tribute to the original author. Happy reading! Elle and Rh

# Deep in the Dark

The Misty Mountains were awe-inspiring. And, if Billa was completely honest, more than a little terrifying. In all their stories, no one in the Shire had ever described anything like it. Her mother had journeyed to Ered Luin, as had the occasional Bounder or Thain’s representative, but Bofur had assured her the Blue Mountains had nothing on this more eastern range. The stones were cold and hard under her feet, the path often steep and narrow, so that Bombur sometimes had to turn sideways, sucking in his girth as far as possible, to squeeze through the cracks between jutting rocks. Other times, there was nary an inch between the edge of her foot and a long drop, perhaps a hundred feet or more. Through all this, there was rarely a speck of green or growing things, and never any animals that she could see.

Her companions seemed much more comfortable in the Mountains, though they eyed their path as carefully as she did. Still, even their good humor failed when it started to rain. Rain fell for days, heavy and cold, until it mixed it with ice and fell even harder. Billa often could not see further than the length of her own arm, and spent her days walking behind Balin, one hand clutching the back of his coat for safety, and usually with Bofur behind her. 

No one spoke much during those days. Or at night, where they rested in a cave, if they were lucky and one could be found, or where they stopped on the path. Meals were cold cram-bread and dried meat or fruit, and sleep was constantly interrupted by thunder. Everyone was miserable. Thorin, from his spot behind Dwalin, who led the Company along the path, glared and snapped at all the Company -- Billa most of all -- and couldn’t usually manage much more than a small, tight smile for Fili or Kili. Everyone else was in equally poor spirits: even asking Glóin about his son resulted only in a grunt. Altogether, Billa could not wait to be out of that dratted mountain range.

So, naturally, it went on and on, as if it had no intentions of ever ending. The sleet and rain continued to fall, the wind continued to shriek, and, as if that were not enough, boulders sometimes came galloping down the mountainsides tumbling down and crashing into their path, sometimes only feet before or behind them. And then came the thunder-battle.

Billa had never even heard of a storm so fierce. If she had been called, before setting off on the journey, to imagine one, her mind’s thoughts would have fallen far short of that terrifying reality. It started near nightfall; the lightning cracked loud and bright, the thunder boomed until the rocks themselves shivered and recoiled. Great crashes, that appeared to have nothing to do with either lightning or thunder rolled around them, until a flash of light revealed that the stone giants were out to play. For they were playing, tossing boulders back and forth like fauntlings might toss a leather ball. Occasionally, one giant would overthrow the other, and the boulder would fall, fall down, to crash into trees or stones below with a resounding bang.

“We must find shelter!” Dori cried, with a worried look at Ori, who was shivering violently. “Or we’re as likely as not to be flattened by those bedeviled giants and their poor aim!”

Balin shouted his agreement, pulling Billa closer to his side and away from the ledge. Thorin nodded, and sent Fili and Kili to find a shelter.

Here, at last, was some luck. They came back quickly with news of a cave, not far away, that was just big enough to fit them all in relative comfort, but did not expand further back, to hide in shadow any unfriendly owners. 

The Company rushed to the shelter, which was luxurious compared to the previous night’s lodgings, and dropped their things. Glóin went to start a fire, but Thorin wouldn’t hear of it.

“No, no fires -- not here,” he ordered, before assigning the four watches to Balin, Bofur, Nori, and Glóin respectively.

Billa tried to sleep, she really did, desperately wished she could, but she couldn’t stop shivering, even after she was relatively dry, The cracks and booms continued outside the cave, and the image of the giants would not leave her mind. 

She gave up after the first change of the watch, and rose to offer Bofur to cover his shift.

“No need, Billa, though I thank you kindly,” he said with a wink. “Thorin wouldn’t like me giving you -- I mean, shifting off my watch onto somebody else.”

“No, you were right the first time; Thorin would not approve of giving me the watch.” she sighed mournfully. “Or do you think I haven’t noticed that, the few times he has apparently given it to me, he or Dwalin stays awake upon their bedroll the whole time?”

Bofur winced. “I don’t--”

“Bofur.” She gave him a sad smile. “It’s alright -- truly. I know he doesn’t trust me, and … truth be told,” she sighed. “I don’t trust myself, either. Gandalf might have insisted I come, but I still don’t understand why.”

“I think I do.” Bofur gave her a smile. “Or do you think all folks would throw themselves in front of trolls to save a **lulkhu** companion?”

Billa looked down, trying not to glance back towards where she knew Thorin slept.

“Or try so hard to learn the sword? I’ve seen you with Dwalin, back in the elfish place and when we’ve got place enough for him to put you and the boys through drills, and he ain’t goin’ easy on you.” he gave her an oddly serious grin. “There are plenty of nobles back home who would’ve quit, long before, rather than stay five minutes under his tender care.”

“And yet I am not trusted to keep watch, or even to walk alone across the mountains.” Her voice was becoming petulant, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. She was tired, she was heartsore, and Thorin’s apathy and disdain for her hurt worse every day, though she wasn’t sure why.

Bofur’s sad smile made her feel even worse.

“Lass…” he paused, frowning as he tilt his head. “What’s that?” He pointed at her waist; or, rather, at the blade hanging at her hip, glowing a terrible blue. With wide eyes, she drew the now shining blade, and she shared a dread-filled look with Bofur as its meaning sank in.

“Up! Get up! **Rakhâs**! **Du bekâr**!” Thorin cried, and, ridiculously, Billa blushed, realizing that the dwarf king had not, in fact, been asleep while she whined to Bofur. The Company woke, some groggy and some already reaching for their weapons, and then the ground opened up beneath them.

Billa barely managed to keep hold of her little sword. The fall was far enough to hurt, but not enough to shatter bones. But that small mercy was soon forgotten when a horde of goblins surged forward, grabbing and biting and slashing with filthy blades. Steel sung in the shadows: Dwalin’s twin axes sliced through the dark, taking a pair of goblin lives while Fili and Kili tackled and dispatched one of the odiously grotesque creatures; even a wobbly slash of Billa’s wounded a goblin, who retreated squealing. But they were outnumbered, at least six to one, and their weapons were soon taken from them, and their hands bound. With a crack of a whip, they were driven forward, down, down into the deep dark. As they rushed the Company along down stuffy corridors and grimy paths, they began to sing, their shrill voices mixing with manic laughter.

> _Clap! Snap! The black crack!_  
>  Grip, grab! Pinch, nab!  
>  And down down down to Goblin-town! 
> 
> _Clash, crash! Crush, smash!_  
>  Hammer and tongs! Knocker and gongs!  
>  Pound pound pound far underground! 
> 
> _Swish, smack! Whip, crack!  
>  Batter and beat! Yammer and bleat!  
>  Round and round far underground!_

It was barely a song, and certainly not music; the discordant voices pained Billa’s ears as much as the words troubled her heart. But that fear was supplanted by another as they were dragged into a stinking, dark, foul cavern lit by red fires. She couldn’t see much, being surrounded and pressed against by her companions, but she could see that in the center of the room sat a fat goblin with an enormous head.

The Great Goblin, as Billa dubbed him, as he was obviously in charge, laughed down at the captives from where he sat on a large flat stone.

“What did you think of our welcoming song?” he asked with a cruel grin. “One of my own compositions, you know!”

“That wasn’t a song!” Dori exclaimed, truthfully but perhaps not wisely. “It was an abomination!”

The Great Goblin’s face contorted into fury.

“Who are these miserable persons?” he roared. “And what are they doing in my domain?”

“Dwarves, Sire!” piped up one particularly malformed goblin. “We found them on the Front Porch.”

“And what were you doing there, eh?” He peered down at Balin, who was in front. “Up to no good, I warrant! Spies, or thieves, I shouldn’t be surprised to learn! Murderers, perhaps, or assassins! Come! What have you to say for yourselves?”

Balin gave him a polite bow. “Of the things you suspect and imagine we have no idea at all! We merely sought to shelter ourselves from the storm in what appeared a convenient and unused cave; nothing was further from our thoughts than inconveniencing you and yours, oh mighty Orc, in any way whatsoever!”

“So you say!” said the Great Goblin. “Might I ask, then, what you were doing up in the mountains at all, and where you were coming from, and where you were going to? Truth, mind you, or I will prepare something particularly uncomfortable for you!”

Balin hesitated, and Bofur jumped it. “We were goin’ to visit our kin, you know, or nephews and nieces and first, second, and third cousins, and the other descendants of our grandfathers, who live on this other side of the mountains,” He rambled on, ignoring the slight twitch that was beginning in the Goblin’s left eye. “When we got lost on one of the roads, well, really it was a path, and not even really much of a path, but more of a way; and then --”

“Enough!” roared the Great Goblin. “You think your prattling on will hide the smell of a lie from me? I will have the truth, if I have to wrench it out of you with your last life’s blood!”

“No lies! No lies!” bleated Bofur, who looked quite terrified now. “We just mean to cross these truly hospitable mountains, without bein’ a bother to anybody!”

“He lies! He lies!” hissed a goblin, the one who had introduced them to his Chief. “Some of our people took blows when we invited these creatures down, and they’re dead as stone now!”

The other goblins in the cavern hissed and gnashed their teeth, but the large goblin seemed indifferent to the news. He raised a finger to his chin.

“An unfortunate occurrence, and one which must be paid for. I would still know your story, though I doubt now asking kindly will get it. Bring out Breaker! And Smasher!” he roared, to the howling approval of his minions. He raised a fat finger at Kili. “Start with the youngest!”

Kili struggled, kicking and swinging his bound hands at his captors, but they began to drive him away, exposing Billa to the Great Goblin’s sight.

“Wait!” He held up a meaty hand, leaning forward to peer down at them. “What have we here? Could this little thing be… female?” His grin was disgusting. “Do our guests have a special prize in their mists?”

Billa shivered at the quiet, cruel laughter that ghosted through the cavern, but she remained silent, staring at the goblin leader with as impassive a face as she could manage. He gestured towards his seat.

“Bring her to me.”

The dwarves went into a frenzy, pulling against their bonds and plaguing their captors with renewed vigor. Billa was knocked from her feet in the melee, and crawled behind Dwalin, shaking uncontrollably against his legs, terror driving all thought from her mind, even of turning invisible. 

“You shall not touch her, Orc!” cried Thorin, shouting loud enough to be heard over the din. The Great Goblin looked at him in surprise, before stunning them all by laughing.

“Ha! I’d know that look anywhere; you are of Durin’s line! Thorin Oakenshield himself, I presume?” He mocked a polite bow. His minions froze, looking from one to another with puzzled faces.

“Welcome, King Under the Mountain! Oh,” he paused in faux-remembrance. “I forgot! You don’t have a mountain; which makes you almost a nobody, really.” He grinned, showing all his rotten teeth. “Almost, that is, because there is a personage, who is most certainly a somebody, who would pay dearly for your head. Just your head, mind,” he waved a heavy hand, “nothing attached. I suspect you remember the one I speak of: the great Orc king of Moria.”

Thorin stiffened.

“The Defiler was killed years ago; I slew him on the field of Azanulbizar.” His blue eyes flashed, icy and deadly in his rage.

The goblin’s answering grin was hard and cruel. “Ah… you think his defiling days are done, do you?” He turned his gaze to a goblin near where the Company had entered. “Find the White Orc, tell him I have found his prize.” 

The goblin’s scurried steps echoed in the chamber. The chief goblin returned his attention to the Company, his gaze falling once more upon the hobbit in their midst.

“Now, what to do with all of you?”

The Great Goblin leaned back into his grotesque seat, tapping his lips with one finger as he pondered his options. He opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a terrified shriek over to the side, where the other goblins were rummaging through the Company’s things. One had unsheathed Orcrist, and had dropped the bright blade immediately, shrinking back from the sword as if it were some dreadful monster. 

“Biter! Biter! Biter has returned! Flee! Flee!” goblins ran back to the walls, cowering, some pointing to Orcrist, glowing blue against the red light. Seeing the blade, the Great Goblin’s face was transfigured into something truly horrible. 

“Murderers! Elf friends! How dare you enter my domain, bearing that blade!” 

His eyes turned red and rolled in his head, his nostrils flared like a bat’s wings, and his jaw detached from his mouth. He was in such a rage he jumped up from his stone seat, rushing towards Thorin as if to bite off his head then and there.

***** 

A flash of light blazed in the cavern. Sparks flew and flared against orcish flesh; a sudden wind pushed the orc chief back, and tumbled a number of his soldiers off the platform. All was confusion, and the orcs’ jibbering cries were soon beyond comprehension. Gandalf stood between the Company and the blustering leader-orc, bloody sword in his hand. With great satisfaction, Thorin realized the orc chieftain no longer had a head.

“Take up your arms, quickly!” the wizard ordered the Company, who lept for their baggage, hands suddenly free, shoving things into satchels without bothering to determine which was who's -- that could be determined later. Only weapons were sure to return to the proper hands. And then they were off, to Gandalf’s continuing cries of “Quick, quick!”

Off they ran, as fast as they were able. Down through dark passages they raced, weapons at the ready, following the dim light of Gandalf’s staff. Even as they flew, they heard the renewed fervor of orcish pursuit grow closer behind them.

To her credit, the burglar tried to keep up, she really did, but she could not keep pace with dwarves at a full run. Old fussy Dori was the first to notice.

“Half a moment!” he cried, and fell back to throw her over his shoulder. His brothers ran next to him, covering both him and her from danger. At a barked order from Dwalin, Bifur dropped back to cover the rear.

Enraged, in pain, and confused, orcs swarmed towards the Company, dropping down scaffolding to cut off the dwarves’ path. Their efforts could not slow the dwarven flight; well-crafted are dwarven blades, and sturdy are those who wield them. Intent on winning freedom, the dwarves dodged when they could and struck when they couldn’t. Many orcs went down, but no dwarf followed, as they followed Gandalf towards what they could only hope was the open sky. 

Gandalf swung his sword again, decapitating another orc, and one of his fellows jumped back with a cry, pointing at Glamdring.

“Beater! Beater and Biter, together! Together! Beater! Biter!” the wretched fellow ran away, as did many of his kind, but more remained, and threw themselves against the owners of the hated swords.

“Hold on tight!” Dori warned Miss Baggins, and then they were moving again, charging through the hordes. They ran and ran, turning behind them often to cut down an enemy chasing them. But with a sinking heart, Thorin heard the sounds of orcs before them, and soon the dwarves and Gandalf were again arranged in a circle, weapons drawn, against the foe. Dori, whose strength and mace would be needed in the coming fight, handed the hobbit over to Bombur, who held her like he might a small child, secure and protective, pressed against his heart. Bifur and Bofur flanked their kinsman, and the rest of the Company formed a ring around them. 

The orcs descended upon the company, wave after wave of orcish bodies pressed in upon Thorin and his fellows..The fight proved short, but fierce. Orcs kicked and bit as they fell, and very few of the Company remained completely unscathed, but they remained upright and ahold of their weapons. 

“Move! Move!” The dwarrow king struck down the last few orcs blocking their path forward, and the Company ran for their freedom and lives. A few more winding, turning tunnels, and then the faintest scent of pure, healthy air reached their noses.

The foul things were right behind them. Thorin and Dwalin turned, weapons raised, as the remainder of the the Company sprinting towards a hole through which golden sunlight could be seen. One by one they squeezed through; Dwalin pushed Thorin ahead. They broke out of the mountain tunnels and onto a clearing filled with the yellow sun of a late afternoon. The bravest of their pursuers followed them out, but they could not endure the sun: their legs wobbled and failed, and their flesh burned anew. With hisses and snarls, they crawled back into the shadows of their mountain tunnels, watching the Company with beady, hate-filled eyes.

Bombur let the burglar down with a sigh and a hand pressed against his back. Gandalf looked almost cheerful as he counted the Company, twice.

“That might have been worse,” he told them.

“It could have been better, too,” Thorin growled.

The Company continued along the path until the unsettling glares of the orcs were no longer discernible before taking a few precious moments to assure themselves of their continued survival. The thieving dwarf suddenly turned with some vehemence towards their halfling.

“What were you thinking, back there?” Nori demanded of the winded hobbit, sharing a water-flask with Ori, braced against a stone outcropping. “Why didn’t you turn yourself invisible before the great hulking orc spotted you?”

The dwarf king blinked, suddenly concerned for Nori’s sanity. But the wizard’s concerned gaze fell on the hobbit.

“You didn’t? My dear, that was not very wise.” He frowned deeply. “Invisibility would have been a great aid to your safety.”

Miss Baggins fell back onto the firm ground. “It was a bit hard to concentrate on anything, you know, except that horrid face!” She sat upright, looking horrified. “I -- I mean…”

“Come now, my dear girl; haven’t you told them yet?” The wizard almost looked amused. “As I told our leader when he came to me for advice, one cannot do better for stealth than a hobbit. Did none of you wonder at her dancing invisible amongst the trolls? Well,” he admitted with a glance at Nori, “perhaps one of you did.” 

The dwarves stared at the wizard, some glancing towards the now furiously blushing hobbit. Calls for a more thorough explanation rose among them, and at any other occasion, the dwarf king would have been the first to demand answers, but a more pressing need drove him. Burying his sigh, Thorin ordered silence and commanded the Company to their feet. They protested, but Thorin would not let them rest.

“Dark will see this mountain crawling with orcs; we must be far gone by then.”

And so they walked as quickly as their exhausted legs would let them, Balin herding Billa along behind Thorin and his heirs, questioning Gandalf as to what both delayed and brought him to them in the nick of time.

He and Elrond had been aware of orcs in the Misty Mountains, but had thought the entrance to their dark tunnels far away from their path. Apparently, they had opened up a new door -- the Front Porch, as he called it, that the dwarves had unwittingly found.

“After my business in Mirkwood is done, perhaps I will see if I can’t find a means of blocking it up,” Gandalf mused, “or soon there will be no getting over the mountains at all.”

Even as exhausted and hungry as he felt, Thorin was perversely almost happy that they had to keep moving. The encounter beneath the mountains had frightened him more than he cared to admit, and he was relieved – if he were being completely honest with himself – that he could focus on something other than the terrors racing through his mind; had they set up camp he was not sure he could have concealed his distress from the Company.

Seeing his kith and kin at the mercy of orcs… it was straight out of his nightmares. He knew all too well how orc slaves faired, if they even would have lived long enough to be enslaved. Kili, he knew, probably would have died under the torturer’s care, as well as any other dwarf their foul chieftain had set his eye upon. Miss Baggins would have fared even worse. 

He winced at her name. He owed her an apology, he knew, a form of address he was unskilled in. Her words to Bofur the night before, though caused by pique, were fair, and she had truly handled the Company and the journey better than any reasonable person could have expected. Even if Thorin still did not fully understand the reasons -- or madness -- that prompted Gandalf to include her, the pretty little hobbit had still left kith and kin, home and everything familiar, to help them. And he was doing a marvelous job, wasn’t he, of acknowledging it? Between his harsh words, and then allowing the Company to fall into the hands of orcs...

That terror and rage engulfed him, but he welcomed it. They had survived, were relatively safe for the moment, and if the underground orcs came after them at dusk, well, they would not be taken unawares again. Their hobbit would never be at the mercy of orcs again; Dwalin and Balin would not allow it, nor would he or anyone else in the Company, no matter what that would require. 

Thorin would rather had dwelt on their burglar, even if her face provoked twisting shame in his gut, than on the question that kept forcing itself into the forefront of his mind: had the orc chieftain spoke true? Did the bane of his family, the murderer of his grandfather, the usurper of Durin’s line still live? No, surely not. He would have bled profusely from the loss of his arm, and orcs were not known to be skilled in leechcraft. A pretender perhaps, or an heir, or even a phantasm, believed or conjured by the orc chieftain to frighten him. Surely Azog no longer lived. Surely he was dead.

Eyes watching the ever-darkening path, Thorin’s mind wandered back to Azanulbizar, to the field strewn with corpses, weapons, mire, and blood. To his grandfather, the madness vanished from his eyes in death, to his father’s despair and near surrender. To his own desperate battle, to the body of Frerin, so young, so broken upon the stone. He saw the great bonfires, the glade stripped bare of trees. He smelled the charcoal and the burnt cloth and the singed hair. He heard the lamentations, the songs broken by wails and tears, and the deep, deep silence of loss.

On and on they went, until the rough path beneath them disappeared. They looked around, but not even Gandalf knew where to go from there. Seeing a thicket of trees jutting out from the cliffside, they headed over there, thinking to make Kili or Nori climb to see as high as possible, and eye out a possible route. They were moving slowly, exhaustion and hunger sapping their strength, and Thorin caught himself several times looking back for the hobbit, even reaching out once to offer to help her uncertain steps, though he caught himself. His own steps were not much better, and she was of age, not to be coddled. Besides, she was neither his kin nor his courted lady, to allow him such intimate contact. Still, he kept half an eye on her. But she remained upright, feet mostly steady, until they reached the tree-filled cliff edge.

It had grown dark when they reached the thicket of firs, and something other than hunger gnawed at Thorin’s stomach as the hobbit’s ears twitched. That apprehension was confirmed when the low, eerie howls echoed across the cliffside.

He swore viciously. “Wargs! Which means orcs are not far behind!” He shared a look with the wizard. “Out of the frying pan…”

“And into the fire. Up, into the trees, quick!” Gandalf ordered in a harsh whisper, and all fifteen raced to obey. Here the hobbit required Dwalin’s aid, for there were few low-hanging branches, but soon the whole of the Company were high up in the trees, who groaned in protest under the sudden weight.

Their breaths held as wargs and orcs came into the clearing, at first paying them no mind, but apparently plotting amongst themselves. The wargs sniffed from time to time, and suddenly one spun to face the fir trees, growling. The other wargs yelped all around the trees, even leaping up at the trunks, eyes blazing.

Even more dangerous were the orcs. For while wargs cannot climb trees, orcs can. They approached, blades gleaming in the moonlight, until a fiery something landed in their path.

“Here!” Gandalf cried, dropping a flaming pinecone towards the dwarves beneath him, “here, quick!”

Fili caught the pinecone, and juggled it in his hands so that Kili could light another one. As  
Kili leaned over towards Dwalin, Fili throw his pinecone, readying to catch another from the wizard. So it went from dwarf to dwarf; even the burglar joined in with an aim Dwalin would later praise. The pinecones burst in the ground before the wargs and orcs, scattering them.

A long howl rose from the mountains, and at the sound of it, the orcs cackled and urged their beasts forward with renewed vigor. 

*****

Billa took another flaming pinecone, this one quite large (it terribly burned her hands, actually, but she did not notice until much later) and let it fly, hitting the largest warg right on its dark nose and he leapt into the air, rushing around, snapping warg and goblin alike in his fear to the cheering of the dwarves. But then another warg, whose tail had caught fire, ran in its terror past the fir trees that held the Company, and one, then another, then all five caught flame. The wargs flew from the flaming trees in terror, but the goblins came up closer, yelling and jeering. They gathered just out of reach of the fiery missiles, a seething mass of hatred, staring hungrily and with foul grins as the flames licked higher and higher up the trees. Then that terrible singing began again,

> _Fifteen birds in five fir trees,_  
>  Their feathers were fanned in a fiery breeze!  
>  What funny little birds, they had no wings!  
>  Oh, what shall we do with the funny little things? 

They paused for a moment, laughing and shouting at the Company.

“Fly away, little birds, if you can! Come down, little birds, or be roasted in your nests! Sing for us, sing, sing! **_Laka, ghâsh, laka_**!”

And then they began again.

> _Bake and toast ‘em, fry and roast ‘em!_  
>  Till beards blaze and eyes glaze;  
>  Till hair smells and skins crack;  
>  Fat melts, and bones black  
>  In cinders lie  
>  Beneath the sky  
>  So dwarves shall die,  
>  And light the night for our delight,  
>  Ya hey!  
>  Ya hoy! 

They might have continued singing and jeering and cheering, but for a low growl that signaled the entrance of new creatures into the thicket.

The growl came from a great white warg, large and terrible, flanked by several more wargs of darker fur, each of whom carried a rider. These goblins looked crueler, to Billa, than the ones she had seen before; armored with studded leather hides and long, lethal spears in their grips, they had the air of hardened villains. But none of the wargs or goblins were more horrid than the pale rider and his mount. 

The white warg prowled forward, her pale fur dingy even by the light of the moon; silver scars standing as testament to battles waged and won, and her sharp fangs dripping as she eyed the trapped dwarrow. The great warg’s rider was even worse than his mount; skin pale as death, and scarred all over in sinister patterns, with blue, cruelly intelligent eyes and a mace instead of a left hand. Even the other goblins cowered back from him, and a long, fearful silence lingered in the thicket until the rider let out a satisfied laugh, eyes flashing as he gazed into the trees.

“Impossible…” From his spot in the tree next to Billa’s, Thorin let out the word as a low, heartfelt moan.

The orc’s (Billa could not think of this one as a goblin) eyes fixed on Thorin, and a manic glee overtook his face. He raised his sword, held in his right hand, at the dwarf king, and ordered something in his rough, cruel language. He laughed, and lowered his blade.

“ ** _Sho gad adol_**!”

His goblins -- for they were obviously his -- charged, hacking at the trees with swords and axes. Arrows flew in response; Kili’s aim was more careful than the goblins, and many fell. But more remained, even as his shafts were joined by Fili’s spinning axes and Nori’s keen blades. The trees groaned, but their stubborn natures kept them upright for a time. Another cruel sword hacked upon the trunk, then another. The projectiles of the dwarves could slow, but not stop, the onslaught. Another blow, and the fir holding Billa, Fili, Dori, Ori, and Gandalf, sank backwards, hanging over the edge of the cliff.

Ori’s grip failed him. Dori was in desperate straits, trying to cling to the damp wood and his brother at the same time. Before he lost his hold entirely, Gandalf thrust his staff down towards Ori’s hand, allowing him to frantically grasp its head, taking some of his weight off Dori’s branch. The weight was still too much for the wizard to draw up immediately, but at least they all could hang there for a long moment -- hope was not yet lost.

Billa looked behind her, mouth opening to shout for aid. Fili was occupied at the foot of the fallen tree, holding back orcs with his twin swords, as were most of their companions, but Thorin… Thorin had charged ahead of his companions, not to the aid of his companions but into the thick of the goblin horde. With his longsword raised and oak shield in front, gaze fixed upon the pale orc, he roared out an oath as he cleaved through fire and goblin towards the monstrous creature.

It was a poorly thought-out attack; the orc, upon his massive warg, was able to sit back and let his mount lunge forward, knocking aside the dwarf king’s blow. Thorin fell back a pace, his blade glinting in the light of the burning trees, and attacked again, drawing blood from the creature’s hide, but the beast lunged past his guard and closed her mouth upon the torso of the king. In the trees, Dwalin roared, and the entire Company’s cries rang out in the thicket, the hobbit’s not least of all.

For in that moment, Biliana Baggins, formerly of Bag End, had a most uncomfortable realization.

The dwarf before her could be petty, even cruel. He was always harsh, never jolly, but he had a heart that spoke to the deepest-held convictions of any hobbit. All he did, even that which she questioned most, was done with the best interests of his folk in mind.This was a leader worth following, through thick and thin.

She pulled out her sword, flashing icy blue in the firelight, and charged.

It would not -- he would not -- end here. While there was strength left in his burglar, she would steal his life away from his foes. Light footed and small, she ducked into openings created by her dwarrow friends, barreling toward the king’s plight with her weapon held ready.

Her blade struck the maw of the beast, cutting deep, and causing the warg to throw open her mouth, flinging her prey away as she howled. Her wound was not mortal, but it bled violently, the red liquid squirting onto the halfling’s face and stinging her eyes.

Billa did not dare try to finish the warg, but flew to Thorin’s side, wiping at her face with a filthy sleeve. He laid upon the hard ground, eyes closed and hands limp, his sword and wooden shield beside him. Billa parried a goblin that attempted to reach the unconscious king, stabbing it through the gut before severing the arm of another. She fought back a manic laugh, almost giddy with the fear and wrath of battle, but was still enough herself to almost collapse in relief when the next goblin before her fell, a dwarven arrow through its throat.

Fili’s swords and Dwalin’s axes were close behind Kili’s arrows, striking and cleaving and killing. The melee was chaotic, the battle fierce and desperate, but Billa did not move from her post before Thorin. And it was good she did not, for the pale orc would not be distracted from his prize. Ignoring the tumult around him, the White Orc guided his mount towards Billa and the unconscious king.

The enraged warg snarled as she approached the halfling, but the pale orc set a hand on her shoulder, holding her back. Billa swallowed hard, her weapon unsteady but raised in defiance. She did not have the words to describe the look in his eyes -- cruel was not enough to describe their malice, nor amusement sufficient for their sick joy.

The beast paused half a pace from the tip of Biliana’s blade, growling softly as her owner leaned forward, looking down on the terrified halfling. His eyes roamed up and down her form, the way a hobbit might a particularly full banquet table, but with less pleasure and more anticipation. He grinned maliciously, and spoke words Billa could understand, his voice guttural and dripping with mockery.

“Foolish little thing… I will enjoy breaking you.” He raised his sword -- pausing for a moment, relishing her fear -- and swung, striking the halfling in the side with the flat of the blade. Biliana went flying, collapsing in a heap a few paces to the side. She lay there, breathless and in pain, unsure why she was even still alive.

Leering in terrible excitement, the White Orc urged his warg forward. That would have been the end of Thorin Oakenshield, if left to the powers of the halfling and her dwarves. But fate, and the grey wizard, had other plans.

The halfling’s delay had been enough; for, having pulled Dori and Ori back to relative safety, Gandalf climbed to the top of the tree, his staff crackling like lightning in its splendor, preparing to fling himself down among the goblins like a thunderbolt. A bolt did fly out of his staff, striking the ground before the white orc, driving him back, striving to keep his seat on his rearing beast. But the wizard never leapt; for at that moment, a large winged creature swept down from above, took him in its talons, and was gone.

Gandalf was the first rescued, but not the last. Eagles--giant, magnificent eagles--swooped down into the flaming clearing, slashing their foes and snatching up dwarves. One took Thorin and his sword, gently, into its talons, but left behind the oak shield. Struggling to her feet, Billa dove for the oaken branch, snatching it up moments before an Eagle took her high into the sky. 

Being so high up normally would have terrified the halfling, who had not much enjoyed even climbing the fir trees, but, as she counted twice all the persons held by Eagles, she could not hold back a delighted laugh. The white orc had not been her ending; all her dwarves, as well as the wizard, were accounted for -- they had survived. 

As the sun began to rise before them, however, Billa’s euphoria faded as Fili’s cries to his uncle went unanswered.

###### 

_N.B.: We have heavily edited the goblin songs in this chapter, to shorten them or accent certain points. The words are still largely, with few exceptions, Tolkien’s._

###### 

**Translations:**

**Khuzdul**  
**Du bekâr!** : To Arms!  
**Lulkhu** : Fool  
**Rakhâs** : Orcs

**_Orcish_**  
**_Laka_** : burn!  
**_Ghâsh_** : fire  
**_Sho gad adol_** : drink their blood!


	6. Strange Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Authors’ Note** : Welcome back! We hope that you enjoy our romp through Tolkien’s world. If you recognize it, it’s probably from Tolkien or Peter Jackson. If it’s an non-Tolkienian idea you’ve seen before in fanfiction, feel free to assume it’s a (most likely) subconscious allusion/tribute to the original author. Happy reading! Elle and Rhi

# Strange Friends

Gandalf and Óin hovered anxiously over Thorin even before his Eagle had set him gently upon the rock. They tended to the unconscious king with low murmurs as the rest of the Company looked on with stricken faces. Swallowing her own fears, Billa pressed against Fili’s side, offering what comfort she could. The prince looked down at her with a painful smile.

Gandalf’s hand passed over Thorin’s face and -- blessing of blessings! -- the eyes of the son of Thráin slowly opened.

“The halfling?” he croaked.

“Biliana is quite alright, as are the rest of our friends,” Gandalf assured the king as he rose to his feet, shaking off Óin’s protesting hands. His eyes swept over the Company before coming to rest on Billa. She swallowed as she took in his thunderous countenance.

“You!” he growled.

Billa flinched back, barely hearing the disapproving noises of the Company over the thundering in her ears.

“ **Lulkha**! What did you think you were doing!” He stalked towards her, livid. “You nearly got yourself killed! What did you expect to achieve, standing against the Defiler? You, who confessed only to knowing the beginnings of danger-sport? Did you think this, too, was a game? 

Billa looked down, her ears and the back of her neck going red, not at all comforted by the mutinous rumblings around her.

“And yet, I owe you a debt that I could never repay.”

Billa blinked, sure she had heard that last wrong, but did not have a chance to look up before two strong arms encircled her, bringing her close to a warm chest. The Company were loud in their approval.

“Forgive me; I should not have doubted you so,” Thorin spoke for her ears alone.

Billa shook with feeling. “No…” she finally managed. “No, don’t apologize. I doubted myself, too.”

Thorin huffed out a laugh. He gave her one last squeeze before releasing her. His hand, however, remained on her shoulder, even as his attention shifted behind her. With a start, she realized the cheering of the Company had died down, and everyone was looking over her shoulder. She turned to behold a single, solitary peak. With her eyes widening in awe, she whispered, “is that…”

“The Lonely Mountain,” Gandalf intoned. “The last great dwarven kingdom in Middle Earth.”

“ **Azhâr** ,” whispered Thorin, squeezing Billa’s shoulder when she glanced up at him. “Home.”

A bird danced across their sight, flying towards the mountain. They watched it for a time, Óin giving a low blessing.

“A raven! Ravens are returning to the Mountain!”

Billa smiled softly even as she corrected him. “No. Not a raven; a thrush.”

“Still, we will take it as a sign,” Thorin said, finally releasing her shoulder; it felt cold without his touch. “A good omen.”

Billa nodded, her mind prickling that there was something about thrushes, something important, that she was forgetting. A flapping of great wings distracted her. For throughout all this, the great Eagles had been patiently watching and waiting, until Gandalf returned his attention to them. He rested a grateful hand on the strong neck of the leader, the one Gandalf called the Wind Lord. The great bird positively preened as Gandalf gave their farewells.

“May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks,” he told the Eagles, who gave a joyous cry and beat their wings as one to take to the sky.

The Company lingered on the Carrock for some time, content simply to enjoy their continuing existence. The older members of the troupe finally rose, ignoring the protests of the youngsters.

“We have little food and no water surviving among our supplies,” Balin reminded them. “We need to find a river or spring, at the very least.”

Dwalin paused in his scouting the Carrock-top. 

“There’s a path down, rough cut steps from the looks of it. Might be too big for Miss Baggins, though.”

Billa came over to look for herself. “Well,” she said, feeling a touch faint just peering down at it. “Well… I’ll try?”

Dwalin snorted, and went to take her hands, probably intending to assist her. His rough knuckledusters scraped against her palms, and she let out an involuntary cry. Dwalin jumped back as she pulled her hands close to her chest, careful not to press them against anything.

“What? What is it?” the Company queried her and each other, looking alarmed. Óin huffed and pushed his way to her side.

“Lass. Let me see,” he gently touched her elbow. “Come now, there’s a good lass.” he praised as she slowly let him take her hands. He winced when he saw her palms.

“Oof, lass.” He rushed back to his pack. “Why didn’t you say something?” he demanded as he began to slather a foul-smelling ointment on her burned hands.

She glanced at Thorin. “I didn’t notice, truth be told. Not until Dwalin tried to take my hand.”

Balin hummed, even as someone snorted in doubt. “No, no,” he defended her. “The rush of battle can hide even broken bones, sometimes.”

Billa nodded, glad she didn’t have to explain further. She winced as Óin tightly wrapped her palms and fingers. Dori looked worried.

“Without her hands, how can she get down?” he fretted.

“We’ll carry her.” Nori looked down the steps. “Should be simple enough to pass her down the path.”

Thorin nodded. “Yes. Everyone take a step; I’ll pass her down from here.” 

Billa blushed deeply, even as Óin growled. “Oh _no_ you won’t, **bund'thurkûn**!”

At first she was relieved, but that turned to mortification when she realized that the healer was not protesting the game of pass-the-hobbit, but only of Thorin’s participation in it. Despite her blushes and insistence that she would be _just fine, thank you very much_ , she was in fact passed down the steps, hardly allowed even to set a foot down upon the stone all the way to the ground. Her embarrassment did not preclude her taking many a peek at Thorin, and she noticed when Fili left the chain to subtly assist his uncle the rest of the way down the Carrock.

Finally, they were down on solid, honest earth again, and Balin let Billa down upon her own two feet.

“There you go, Miss Biliana!” He gave her a wink. She smiled up at him despite her embarrassment.

“Shouldn’t you and Dwalin, at the very least, call me Billa? We _are_ family for the duration of this trip, after all.” She raised her voice to be heard to the rest of the Company. “After everything we’ve been through, I think, everyone has won the right to at least call me Biliana, without any need for ‘Miss’ anything, don’t you think?”

Fili and Kili cheered, and Balin smiled as he nodded at her. “Indeed. Well, _Billa_ , come and sit down over here, as we think about what to do next.”

They all agreed finding water was of highest priority, but they also all knew they would need somehow to refill their supplies before attempting Mirkwood, a place even Gandalf sounded wary of.

Gandalf sat for a time smoking his pipe, lost in thought even as the dwarves argued around him. Finally, he spoke around his pipe.

“There is a house… not too far from here, where we might seek refuge.”

“Whose house?” Thorin asked almost as a sigh. “Friend or foe?”

“Neither, actually.” The wizard puffed out a series of smoke rings. “He is a very great person, the one I speak of, but does not much care for visitors, as reports have it. He is kind enough if humored, but can be appalling when angry, and I warn you he gets angry easily.”

“Can’t you take us towards someone more even tempered?” asked Ori timidly.

“No, I cannot!” Gandalf answered crossly. “And take care to speak more politely to him than you have to me!” he continued as Dori moved in front of Ori. “He is a friend of beasts, not the Free Peoples, and you cannot hunt -- or even hint of such a practice! -- in his lands. Do not, from now until we are leagues from his home, speak of meat or venison or furs!” With that warning, he rose and began to walk, the dwarves and hobbit scrambling to their feet to follow.

They walked for some time, bemoaning their lack of ponies, before the sound of a rushing river cheered their spirits. They sprinted to the riverbank, stooping and cupping their hands to bring the clear water to their eager lips. When they had drunk their fill (Billa’s stomach almost hurt with the amount of water she drank in her thirst) Balin suggested that they ought to bathe, as Nori’s pack still had some soap in it, and “dirty clothes and skin could cause infection in more than one of us”, with a significant look at Thorin and Billa. Óin agreed, and unwrapped Billa’s hands and pushed her towards a little pool of water, around the bend, where the current was lessened and she could be afforded some privacy as she washed. Dwalin pointed behind, promising to remain within earshot and stop any of the younger dwarves from “being right idiots” and disturbing her.

Gratefully, the halfling stripped (carefully, as the cloth hurt her blistering hands) to her skin and sank into the water. The chilly water might have disturbed her, in earlier days, but the cold was now a gift to her aching muscles and pained hands. She took her portion of soap and scrubbed first her clothes -- placing them on a large flat stone to dry when done -- and then herself clean, paying special attention to her hair, which was quite matted, and her feet. When she finally felt clean, she carefully ran her fingers through her wet hair, unsnarling her curls until she could run her fingers from root to end. 

The whole time, she could dimly hear the exuberance of her dwarves, and she smiled as she listened to them enjoy themselves; they had certainly earned it, after the last few days. Her heart rose even more when she heard Thorin’s laugh rising above the din; one of his nephews must have been playing the fool. 

She stood in the water, just deep enough to lap at her collarbone, for some time. But eventually the cold water became uncomfortable, and the hobbit rose from the water to dress and lounge in the sunlight. Once, soon after lying down, she heard Dwalin calling her, but he did not appear after she called back, assuring him she was fine.

She must have dozed off, for when she opened her eyes again, she was not alone. It was not one of her dwarves watching her (that would have earned them a tongue-lashing), but a large bear with far-too-intelligent eyes. She stared at her new neighbor, unblinking, until it _winked_ at her. A delighted smile broke over her face.

“Are you…” she whispered, half-afraid she was still dreaming. “Could you be… _berrserkr_?” the word rumbled over her tongue, and the bear chuckled, pleased. It stood up on its hind legs, and began to shift.

Billa had heard of the _berrserkrs_ , the skinchangers, before, of course. They were distant cousins to her own people, having grown as large as they had shrunk short. But she had never met one, nor had ever thought to. Even her mother or grandfather, for all their famous journeyings, had never laid eyes on one! Billa smiled at the giant man, his own mouth split into a merry grin.

“Well met, Daughter of the Earth.”

Billa rose, curtseying as best she could in her shirt and breeches (her overskirt still lying on the drying stone). “And you, Son of the Forest.”

The hairy man beamed at her. “Beorn,” he told her in his rumbling voice.

She smiled. “Biliana, but my friends call me Billa.” Her stomach chose that moment to groan, and she blushed deeply, hands flying to her belly as if to silence it. Beorn laughed.

“Hungry, little bunny? Let’s see…” he disappeared into the forest. Dwalin, dressed only in damp breeches, stopped by to look in on the hobbit while the large man was gone, nodding at her before disappearing back towards the Company’s bathing spot. Beorn reappeared soon after, hand filled with wild berries. She ate quickly and gratefully.

“I had heard,” she told him when she had finished, seating herself on a grey stone, “that a certain great personage lived here, tending to the Green Mother’s creatures. I was not told, however, that he was one of Yavanna’s Chosen.”

“Your source might not have known,” he leaned back against an ancient oak tree, which groaned in protest of his added weight. “We Chosen of Yavanna don’t make the fuss of other creatures, after all.”

Billa could only smile, for that was certainly true enough. They spoke for some time, of flowers and trees and the beasts Beorn called friends. And of his house, not far away, and the honey bread he had in plenty, and promised her once she was rested enough to come along. She warned him she was not alone, but he seemed to pay that no mind. 

They chatted about everything and anything, not paying the sun’s continuing journey any mind, until Ori came to Billa’s part of the riverbank, seeking her. He squeaked when he saw the large man sitting so near her, but raced in front of her, baring his teeth and trying to look threatening, even as he shouted for the others. Beorn’s bushy eyebrows rose as he beheld the young dwarf, and was opening laughing as Gandalf and the rest rushed into the clearing.

“So, your mysterious friends are dwarves, then? Well, mostly dwarves,” he corrected with a glance at Gandalf. “Well, I’m not sure I approve, little bunny, but I don’t know what business of mine that is!” 

Billa moved past Ori to be again between Beorn and her friend. She wrinkled her nose against Beorn’s look, causing him to laugh again. Gandalf cleared his throat loudly, and the skinchanger reluctantly glanced at him before making another face at Billa, smiling at her giggles.

“I am Gandalf,” the wizard said, trying again to get Beorn’s attention. “Gandalf the Grey.”

The large man sniffed dismissively, not even raising his eyes away from Billa. “Never heard of you.”

“You have heard, though, of my cousin Radagast; he speaks quite highly of you.”

“The odd fellow living at the edge of Mirkwood?” Beorn deigned to shift his gaze at that. “Yes, he’s not a bad fellow, so far as wizards go. I see him now and again. And who are all these?” his dark eyes roamed over the rest of the Company. Thorin stepped forward.

“Thorin Oakenshield and his Companions, at your service,” he said with a bow.

“I don’t need your service,” Beorn scoffed. “ but you all look as if you need mine. If it is true you are the one called Oakenshield, then you should have, though I am not over-fond of dwarves.”

The dwarves stiffened. Billa pressed her small hand against Beorn’s free hanging paw, frowning when he looked down at her. He laughed uproariously.

“Little bunny wants me to be nice to her dwarves, eh? Well, I’ll try,” he told her, “so long as they behave themselves.”

Thorin and the other dwarves shifted in their places, and Beorn’s eyes roamed over to their direction.

“Well, what do you want, anyway?” The bear-man peered down skeptically at the wizard, whom he apparently decided was in charge (not entirely incorrectly, Billa admitted to herself, though she winced as she glanced at Thorin, almost afraid he would read the thought on her face).

“To tell the truth, we lost our way and much of our baggage, and are rather in need of help, or at least advice.” He leaned heavily on his staff. “We had a rather bad time with orcs in the mountains, you see.”

“Orcs?” said Beorn, a bit less gruffly. “Oh, ho! So you’ve had trouble with _them_ , have you? Whatever did you go near them for?”

“We did not mean to, I assure you!” Billa interrupted, earning the big man’s smile. “They surprised us at night, while we were sleep in a cave, trying to cross the mountains without bothering anybody whatsoever!”

“Indeed,” Gandalf inserted with a side look at Billa. “It is a rather long tale, in all.”

Beorn sighed. “Well, then, I suppose you had best follow me to my home, and come inside, if it’s a long tale to tell. Come now, I haven’t all day, and little bunny looks fit to fall over!” One large arm wrapped around Billa’s middle and swept her up onto the bear-man’s shoulder. He kept one hand on her thighs, steadying her; Dwalin growled, drawing his axes as he advanced.

“Halt, you!” Balin stepped forward, hand on his **thatrzagr**. “Release our kinswoman at once!”

The bear-man laughed. “She’s got little legs, Master dwarf, even compared to you! How else is she supposed to keep up, and food’s awaiting!”

Even as he spoke he bounded away from the river and towards what Billa could only assume was home. Daring a look behind, she saw the Company sprinting after, fury blazing in more than one set of eyes. She sent an apologetic smile to the dwarves behind her, shrugging her shoulders as the leapt over a fallen log.

“Come along, little bunny’s dwarves!” Beorn laughed over his shoulder. “Dinner shall be on the table soon, we shouldn’t be late!” Billa poked the back of his head, but he only laughed harder.

Upon their arrival to a large wooden house with a very high pointed roof, Beorn flung open the large wooden doors without much effort. Inside were a menagerie of horses, sheep, and dogs, all neighing and wagging tails and pressing themselves against the large man’s mighty legs. He boomed his laughter, shooing the animals away.

“Not now, not now,” he said, waving a hand. “We have guests to feed, and tales to hear! Come now, let us set up some supper for our company!” 

To Billa’s astonishment, the animals scattered into other rooms, returning quickly with pitchers of milk, pots of honey, and platters of breads, cheeses, potatoes, vegetables, mushrooms, berries, apples, and butter balanced on their backs! As the others arrived, gasping for breath, Beorn made his way to the massive wooden table and sat himself on the only chair, settling Billa on his lap. Gandalf took a spot on one of the long benches, next to Beorn, and Balin took the seat opposite, Dwalin at his side attempting to glare at the wizard and skinchanger at the same time.

Thorin, meanwhile, settled in beside Gandalf . “Are you alright?” he murmured to Billa, eyeing her with mild concern.

“Yes, of course!” she frowned at him, earning his frown in return. She tilted her head, confused, and he opened his mouth to speak again.

“Now,” boomed Beorn, preventing whatever he was about to say. “You promised me a tale or two, and I’m ready to hear it!”

Gandalf told their story with a good deal of flourish and detail, from the beginnings in the Shire -- “where we picked up our excellent Miss Baggins here” -- through to that morning, and their meeting his “great personage” at the river. He admitted to not knowing all the details of their trip Underground, but told the story anyway, with Bofur or Balin sometimes filling in missing facts. Beorn looked especially pleased to learn the Great Goblin was dead.

“Good man!” he cheered, clapping Gandalf on the shoulder. “I don’t know if I believe you, but it’s a grand tale, nonetheless! And good tales should be rewarded, even if they aren’t as truthful as they ought.” he gestured towards the sheep, lounging in one corner, and a few of them departed. “I’ll investigate your story tomorrow, and if it is true… well, you’ll find quite a friend in me!”

The sheep returned with sealed bottles filled with a golden liquid. Beorn opened several of them, and the sweet, welcome smell of mead filled the room.

“Drink up, little dwarves! And bunny and wizard, of course.” He passed the bottles around, filling up Billa’s mug himself. “To the death of all orcs!”

That won him a great cheer from all the dwarves, and the mugs were quickly drained and refilled. The dwarves seemed content to continue the merriment for some time, but Billa was struggling to keep her eyes open. She closed them, just for a moment…

“Wake up, little bunny!”

She jumped, almost falling off Beorn’s lap, but his hands came to her sides to steady her.

“Up! Time for sleeping, for you, I think!” he laughed, rising from his seat and carrying her to a pile of straw and blankets his dogs were arranging. “You and your dwarves can sleep here tonight; they’ll be safe, so long as they do not leave the house!” that was said with a significant look over at the Company. 

They did not answer him, but glared as Óin and Balin rushed over to her side, getting her settled in the blankets and her hands re-anointed and wrapped. She was back asleep before Óin tucked in the last piece of bandaging into place.

*****

Thorin was slow to trust under the best of circumstances, and this man Beorn had done little to earn his favor. First his disdain for dwarves and his unnerving doting on Biliana, and then his open doubting of their story had left the dwarven king in a very poor opinion of their host. But he remembered Gandalf’s warning, and he held his tongue, especially as the man never sought to removed Biliana from their sight once reaching his home. They all slept late the next morning, but awoke when the smell of eggs and oatcakes permeated the hall. Biliana woke slowly, adorably rubbing at her eyes with a small bandaged fist as Balin guided her towards the breakfast table. Dwalin helped her to a seat on the bench before their host could snatch her up again, and Balin filled her mug with the sweet-smelling tea the ponies had provided.

The animals’ behavior was eerie, to say the least, but not enough to put the hungry dwarves off their food. They, like their master, were especially attentive to Biliana, who would pet or pat them in thanks when they dropped a treat in front of her.

“Don’t be afraid to ask my creatures for anything, little bunny,” Beorn said as he rose from the table. “They’ll serve you as they serve me, as a fellow Chosen of Yavanna.”

Thorin and Balin shared a confused look at the title, but their host continued.

“I’m going out now, to see if I can’t find the truth of your friends’ excellent tale. I’ll return soon enough; stay warm and full in my absence!” he laughed, mussing her still-unbound hair as he passed by. Right before he left out of the open front doors, he leaned forward and suddenly changed into a great, massive brown bear! Ori shrieked and the others started, though the wizard and the hobbit seemed unsurprised. Their bear-host grunted something that could only be a laugh as he bounded out the doors, which two dogs closed behind him.

“ **Kud tâti**? What… what was that?!” demanded Ori, turning towards the wizard.

“Master Beorn is a skinchanger, one of the _berrserkrs_ of the North.” Gandalf told them, “Sometimes he is a great big man, sometimes a great big bear.”

Dori shook his head. “I don’t trust it; it’s not natural! He’s under some enchantment!”

“Don’t be absurd,” Biliana said, a touch peevishly as she reached for the jam (or tried: Balin was quick to aid her in smearing it across her oatcakes), “He’s under no enchantment but his own. He is one of Yavanna’s Chosen, and is as natural to the world as you are, Master Dori.”

Ori hesitated, but his curiosity overcame any fear of the annoyed hobbit. “What do you mean, Yavanna’s Chosen? He said you were, too?”

Billa shrugged, looking up from her oatcakes. “That’s not as easy to answer as you might think. We hobbits -- and the skinchangers, too -- were men, once, but somehow we came under the special care of Yavanna, long ago. Some of us became very big, others of us very small. We don’t remember quite how or when -- we did once, we know that much, but it was lost in whatever disaster made us Wander for so many years, until we found the Shire. Gandalf might know more.”

“Not much more,” the wizard answered. “Only that there was a promise, long ago, from some Men to the Green Lady, to care for the living things of this world as she does. And hobbits and skinchangers have largely kept that promise, albeit in very different ways.”

The halfling nodded, pleased. Ori fell silent, and Thorin could see him scratching away in his notebook --which had miraculously survived their adventures under the Misty Mountains. It surprised Thorin that the halflings knew so little of their own origins, but he kept any judgemental comments to himself -- it was not as if their brave little hobbit herself had simply chosen not to learn it. Biliana finished eating, and Balin led her away from the table, to something approaching privacy but still within the main hall, to allow Óin to inspect her hands without an audience. Thorin slipped out into the garden to assist Dwalin in putting Fili and Kili through their **thafnîth** , as well as prevent Óin from getting any ideas about inspecting _him_.

After training, in which Dwalin wouldn’t let Thorin do much to assist, to his great annoyance, the dwarf king took a turn around the garden, He noted here and there the useful plants, as well as the fencing and gate. There was not actually much that would deter more than roaming animals, nothing that would keep out wargs or orcs, but something assured Thorin that the creatures would not lightly consider attacking Beorn. 

Around a corner he found Biliana, seated in the midst of wildflowers, petting a sheep with a bandaged hand. He could not help but smile at the scene, a testament that her innocence had survived their long road, and was still smiling when she looked up. 

“Oh! Thorin! I…” she made to stand, but he held up a hand, approaching her even as he spoke.

“No, Miss… Biliana, don’t trouble yourself. I was just enjoying the garden, same as you, it appears.”

She smiled broadly, the image of pleasure. “Very much so!”

His heart ached faintly, sorrowing again at the need that took such a gentle creature from her home and thrust her into the darkness of the wider world.

Pushing such thoughts aside, Thorin eased himself down to sit next to her -- the sheep wandering off with a sniff -- and watched with no little pleasure as she tilted back her head to expose her face to the sunlight. Her cheeks glowed, and her curly hair looked almost like flame. She breathed deeply, happily, and then looked back at Thorin.

“Is there something you needed?” she asked.

“Yes, actually.” she turned her full attention to him, wide blue eyes blinking. “Nori’s words, and Gandalf’s, to you outside the mountain tunnels suggested that you have a skill of which I was unaware.”

Billa nodded, sighing quietly. “You are not wrong. There is something I concealed from you -- from the whole Company. It is a secret my people have long kept from all other folk. But Gandalf seems not to think it necessary to keep from you, and you have earned my trust, as well as his.” She folded her hands primly in her lap, turning to face Thorin with resolution. “Gandalf told you that not many can see a hobbit when we do not wish to be seen; it is not mere subtlety, it is fact. When in need, my people can vanish to most eyes.”

Thorin arched a brow. “And how came your folk by this ability?”

“There’s a bit of lore, though I know not how much of the truth it tells.” Billa gestured to the fields around them. “When the _berrserkrs_ made their covenant with Yavanna to act as keepers of the balance between predator and preys, she gave them the ability to change their skins. She gave to the Ents care of the trees and the forests, and my people care for the herbs and the flowers and the other little things.” 

The king frowned; he knew this sort of tale. His people told them of Mahal, and the gifts Mahal gave the dwarves. He did not know for certain how much of his peoples’ tales were fact, and which were embellishments, but he believed the core of them. “How does that play into the gift your people have?”

Billa smiled at Thorin. “Tell me, how often do you see the plants along the roadside?” she asked “How frequently is your attention drawn to the simple and the commonplace plants?”

He considered that for a moment; and then began to smile. “Hardly ever.”

She beamed, twining her fingers around the soft blades of grass they sat upon. “And so the gift She gave to my ancient kin.” Her smile turned a little mischievous. “That is not to say that we have not used that skill to great effect over the years, and not only against strangers.”

Thorin outright chuckled at the idea of young hobbits, learning how to harness this innate ability, and the truly legendary games and pranks they must have played upon each other.

Conversation ceased, but the hobbit and dwarf-king remained within that cultivated glade for some time, enjoying the sun on their faces and the contentment agreeable company brings.

Their host returned before the sun set, in a very good mood. He said he had been over the river and right back up to the mountains. He found there an orc and warg pair, scouting, and had questioned them aggressively. They were quite agitated, as Beorn recounted to the wizard and the dwarves, angry at the death of the orc chieftain under the mountains and the deaths and maimings of orcs and wargs on the cliffside. 

“It was a good story, that of yours,” Beorn concluded. “And I like it better now that I know it is true! I shall think more kindly of dwarves -- and wizards! -- after this. The orc chieftain dead, and Azog’s mount wounded! Such a fierce little bunny!” he chuckled fiercely to himself, before noticing that Biliana was making her way out the side door. 

“Don’t go out there, little bunny!” he warned her. “I brought back my orc and warg informants, but I don’t think you would like seeing what’s left of them!”

That was enough to dissuade Biliana, but Thorin and the other dwarves were intrigued. They entered the side garden, and Thorin smiled grimly at the sight that welcomed him. The orc’s head was stuck outside on a gate-post and the warg’s pelt was nailed to a tree just beyond. This Beorn was dangerous, as Tharkûn had said, but Thorin suspected he was a better friend than he had originally given him credit.

That night’s dinner was as bountiful as the previous, and many a story was told, until Biliana spoke from her place between Beorn and Balin. 

“That white orc... You all seem to know of him, at the very least. Who is he?”

The merriment slipped from Thorin’s face, and Biliana recoiled.

“I’m sorry! I was only curious, you don’t have to --”

Balin patted her arm. “It’s alright; it’s a story you have every right to know, having defended Thorin as you did.” He ignored the flush blooming once more in her cheeks. 

“His name is Azog, and he is a great chieftain of orcs. He has claimed for his own our ancestral halls of Khazad-dûm, what they now call Moria, and that is where he entered our history.”

“After the Worm stole Erebor,” Dwalin continued, “the King sought to reclaim our halls in Moria, to win our people a home.”

“That was foolish,” Beorn interjected. “Durin’s Bane, if nothing else, still haunts those pits.”

Thorin sent their host a dark look, though he could not deny it. “We know; but Thrór was still king, and his word was still law. We marched, with our kinsmen from the Iron Hills, to the plain of Azanulbizar, to the east of Moria. And there we fought, against countless orcs. Many were lost, but we held our own, until Azog himself entered the fray.” His throated tightened, and he could not continue.

“Azog had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin,” Balin explained, tears entering his aged eyes. “And he began… by beheading the king.”

Biliana inhaled sharply, a look of sorrow marring her features. For a wild moment, Thorin thought she was making to rise, to come over to comfort him, but she remained seated, and he listened to his fellows continue the sad tale with even less pleasure than before. 

Dori continued. “The battle was nearly lost; would have been, if not for Thorin.”

Thorin’s eyes met hers, and he grimaced, even as his ears burned. 

“We were routed, would have fled, to be cut down or hunted to the edges of the earth, had not we saw him.” Balin’s voice was full of pride. “Standing before the white orc, shield splintered and sword gone, wielding only an oak branch for protection.” the old advisor’s eyes shifted towards where the branch lay amongst their weapons. “But still he fought against Azog, and when the chance came, he snatched up a fallen blade and brought it down upon the arm of the white orc, cleaving it in two. He skulked back to his caves, to die we thought, until…”

“Until he entered that thicket,” Biliana breathed, sapphire eyes wide. “Oh, that must have been something out of a nightmare, for all of you!” She spoke to them all but her eyes, filled with sympathy and sorrow, remained fixed on Thorin’s.

Dwalin grunted in agreement.

“It is hard news to bear,” Balin admitted, “knowing that he still lives, to plague the line of Durin.” His gaze fell upon Fili and Kili, who for once looked perfectly serious. He forced himself to smile. “But thanks to you, my dear, he was not victorious that night.”

Biliana blushed deeply. She seemed to understand, however, that the dwarves were unable to speak more of their old sorrow and older foe, for she asked nothing more that night, and soon went to bed.

 

In the end, they spent nearly a week at the skinchanger’s house. He gave them full access to his pantry and stores, allowing them to take rough-spun wool yarn and fabric to make clothing more suitable to the changing weather -- mentioning the threadbare condition of Biliana’s wardrobe removed any frown he might have had -- as well as dried fruits, roots, and a special kind of twice-baked bread he promised would last a very long time, and satisfy them even in little portions. As thanks, Dwalin, assisted by Fili, repaired some of Beorn’s ironworkings, and Bombur made them all a delicious cobbler.

Thorin spent much of the time with Biliana, whose injuries also prevented her from helping overmuch. He found that he took great delight in her enjoyment of simple things: of the plants and sunshine, as well as Dori’s fussing as he measured her for her three new shirts and two new breeches. She teased Ori as well, who was forbidden by both Dori and Nori from helping in the sewing -- she apparently found it quite funny that the young knitter was such a bad hand with a sewing needle.

He found she had a great love of flowers -- apparently a common devotion among her people, who had even devised a language around it, much as dwarves had with precious metals and gems -- but knew much also of the practical gardening of vegetables, fruits, and roots. For the first time, the thought of asking her to stay in Erebor, at least for a while, crossed his mind, and he was not displeased at the idea that she might be valuable after the success of the Quest, if such a time ever came to pass. He continued asking her questions, enjoying how expressively she used her face and hands in her answers.

Talking with their host and the wizard about their road ahead was not nearly as pleasant. 

“I planned to take the Company towards Rhosgobel,” the wizard said. “But our host cannot recommend it.”

“The Old Forest Road has long been disused,” Beorn explained, “and foul things cross it at will. And the animals say that the blights at its ending have grown into a vast swamp, which has been the end of many a beast.”

Gandalf looked grave. “So you say we must risk the elven road?”

The bear-man snorted. “If you must risk Mirkwood at all, then yes.” He looked at Thorin. “Be careful; the elves of Mirkwood are less wise and more dangerous than their Westernly kin, or than they were in elder days. Living in the darkness, they have become a bit dark themselves.”

Thorin had hardly needed the warning against those **amrâl'zarsás** , but he thanked their host all the same. It was even more distressing to learn that Gandalf did not intend to accompany them through Mirkwood.

“I have business with the White Council in Dol Guldur,” he told the dwarven king when he rebuked the wizard for abandoning them yet again. “And you will be a great deal safer in Mirkwood, Thorin Oakenshield, if I depart to meet the danger there than if I were to remain with you!”

Their host gave them better news; he would loan them ponies, to be set free at the edge of Mirkwood, to help them travel faster across the open lands between his house and the forest gate.

“Just to Mirkwood, mind,” he growled. “They are not to step one foot inside that forest, but released to make their way back to me!”

Biliana vouched for the Company, promising that of course the ponies would be set free. Beorn had smiled before poking her in the stomach.

“Little bunny is getting nice and fat again!” he crowed, changing topics with ease. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with me? I’ll give you all the milk and honey you’d ever need!”

Thorin’s hand itched for his sword, but Biliana just gave the skinchanger an exasperated look. 

“Do you really think I could leave these dwarves to fend for themselves?” 

Fili and Kili made a show of objecting, but their host just sighed.

“Lucky dwarves, to have you for a friend!” Turning back to Thorin, he added, “I am not so much a fool as to think you do not hunt; when you leave this place, go north until the long island in the Anduin is no longer in sight behind you; then you are no longer in my lands, and will not harm any of my creatures in your huntings.”

That stipulation being readily agreed to, Beorn added that he would set out the next morning with some of his fiercer friends, to scatter the orcs and wargs that might be searching for them. They were to wait two days, he said, before setting off.

He was gone before they awoke, and the two days passed quietly. Thorin could not say he was sorry their host was absent -- if he never heard his burglar called ‘little bunny’ again, it would be too soon. And with Beorn’s stores and ponies, hope began to stir in his heart; truth be told, he had never let himself imagine them so far in their journey, but now…

His heart full, he began to sing, the same tune as in Biliana’s house all those weeks ago, but with new words.

> _A wind came down from mountains cold,_  
>  _and like the tide it roared and rolled;_  
>  _the branches groaned, the forest moaned,_  
>  _and leaves were laid upon the mould._
> 
> _The wind went on from West to East;_  
>  _all movement in the forest ceased,_  
>  _but shrill and harsh across the marsh_  
>  _its whistling voices were released._
> 
> _It passed the Lonely Mountain bare_  
>  _and swept above the dragon's lair:_  
>  _there black and dark lay boulders stark_  
>  _and flying smoke was in the air._
> 
> _It left the world and took its flight_  
>  _over the wide seas of the night._  
>  _The Moon set sail upon the gale,_  
>  _and stars were fanned to leaping light._

He looked up to see Balin beaming at him, and Biliana smiling softly beside him.

“Come now, laddie. It’s time to be off to bed, so as to make that dream a reality.”

The ponies were healthy and swift, and they reached Mirkwood in very good time. They were still irritated when Gandalf left them, but Thorin could not help but smile at the wizard’s parting words.

“Do not fret; I am sending Miss Baggins with you! Now, don’t you look so glum, Billa,” the wizard scolded, “for I am trusting you to look after all these dwarves for me! They certainly need a steady hand about them, don’t you agree?” And then, with a very firm warning not to leave the path, he was off.

Thorin felt, more than saw, the Company turn to him. He took a moment, assessing what he could see of the forest--trees, and more trees, hiding more cursed elvenkind inside, no doubt--and hefted his pack. “No use wasting daylight,” he said abruptly, and nodded to Dwalin to lead the way into the Mirkwood.

###### 

_N.B.: “berrserkr” literally means “bear-shirt”, and of course is the origin of the word “berserker”. Given the connection with “wearing” a bearskin like clothing and Beorn’s infamous fierceness, we thought the word not inappropriate for describing Beorn’s people. -- Elle and Rhi_

###### 

**Khuzdul**  
**Amrâl'zarsás** : Tree-lovers, tree-shaggers  
**Azhâr** : Home  
**Bund’thurkûn** : rock-head  
**Kud tâti?** : What is it/that?  
**Lulkha** : Fool (feminine form)  
**Thafnîth** : Training, drills  
**Thatrzagr** : straight sword with a three-pointed extension at the sword's tip


	7. Fog of Malice

**Authors’ Note:** Welcome back! We hope that you enjoy our romp through Tolkien’s world. If you recognize it, it’s probably from Tolkien or Peter Jackson. If it’s an non-Tolkienian idea you’ve seen before in fanfiction, feel free to assume it’s a (most likely) subconscious allusion/tribute to the original author. Happy reading! Elle and Rhi

###### 

#  Fog of Malice 

Thorin did not like Mirkwood. Not one bit. Even in his youth, when it had still be Greenwood the Great, it had been too damp, too enclosed for his tastes. And the wrong sort of dark for a dwarf to ever be comfortable. But now it was far, far worse. He and his could still see, at least in the little daylight that snuck in through the high canopy, but now eerie sounds echoed just out of eyesight, and foul things stank in the underbrush. 

Nights were even worse. They had stopped shortly before dark the first night, as Óin could still get Fili, Balin, and Dwalin to badger Thorin about resting his injuries. The **bast’khuzd** and his brother quickly had a fire going, and all was pleasant enough for a while, until the sun finished setting and the shadows grew beyond their campsite. Then, horrible, monstrously large moths had descended upon the Company, attaching to their clothes, hair, and bedding. Nothing drove them off, until Bifur stomped out the fire -- and the moths disappeared as quickly as they came. The dark was unpleasant, especially for their burglar. Poor Biliana was worse off than the others, being unable to see much further than her own pert nose even during the day. Thorin could see her ears twitching with every new sound -- some of which Thorin could only hear when paying very close attention -- and Balin took much pains to relieve her distress. 

He distracted her with stories: at first, just those relating to the history of dwarves, such as the six lives of Durin, and speculations as to his seventh yet to come, but as he found her an eager and sympathetic listener, his stories turned to nearer days, and things closer to his own heart. It was late in their seventh day of walking through that accursed forest that he first mentioned Himla to Biliana. The next day, he told that story in full.

“I had known Himla and her siblings all my life,” he began. “Our fathers being particularly good friends -- but I confess I had never considered my affection for her romantic until, one day -- completely out of solid stone to me -- she proposed! I admit I said yes without even a thought; and did not think it odd at all!” Balin smiled, lost in his memories.

“She was lovely. She had auburn hair -- of a shade quite similar to yours, my dear -- and sideburns as long as my beard. Her eyes were bright, especially when irritated… and she was so much of the time, especially towards her siblings!” he laughed. “Her brother Nithi was a troublemaker, and her sister Glava has always been a bit of a busy-body.” he admitted. “It surprised no one when Himla enlisted to serve in the Sapphire Guard, having always been fond of swinging her mace around.”

Biliana smiled at the descriptions, but remained quiet, as if she sensed the tale did not have a happy ending. Balin told many stories of their childhood and mature life, before and after their betrothal, earning many looks of awe or merriment from their halfling, until he brought himself to speak of that ending.

“Then… the dragon came.” Balin’s voice wavered as he spoke. “She was on duty at the grand entrance to Erebor at the time; she and her comrades never had a chance.”

Biliana rested one newly-healed hand in his elbow, offering what comfort she could. Balin patted her hand with a sad smile. 

“You’re a good girl; to pity an old warrior’s sorrow.”

They walked in silence a good long while, until Biliana dared a question.

“But you had some time together, yes? Were you two married?”

“We had some time, yes.” Balin patted her hand again. “But we weren’t married. Our betrothal had been announced a year before, but our fathers were still arguing over the **yasath'khajamu**.”

“The… ya-sath… yasath ka-jamu…?” she tilted her head, much like a curious puppy. Balin smiled down at her.

“Yasath'khajamu. It is… well, the best translation would be bride-price. But,” he hastened to add, seeing the look on her face, “we don’t mean by that what Men too often do. The gift does not go to the father, as if the daughter was chattel who could be purchased, but is a surety the husband sets aside for the bride. He hands the **bannô** over to his new father-in-law, who then places it in his daughter’s care, thus acknowledging her marriage. After it is placed in her new home, no one, not even her husband, can touch the treasure without her permission.”

Biliana smiled. “That’s… lovely, actually. And it is hers, even after she is widowed, or does it pass to her children like dowries do with the Breelanders?”

“No -- it is hers until her death.” Balin smiled at her approving nod. “Does the Shire have any such traditions?”

She shrugged. “We have neither dowry nor bride-price, as Men understand it, but hobbit lasses do keep glory boxes, which we and our families fill with goods a new bride might want.”

“Really? And what sorts of goods might that be?” Thorin’s curiosity surprised him, but he excused it easily to the monotonous darkness of their surroundings. 

Biliana’s response was delayed as she tripped over an unfriendly root that gnarled across the elven path. After they set her back upon her feet, she answered. 

“Depends on the lass, and who she’s likely to wed. My aunt Rosa is very proud of her set of crystal wine decanters, but that would have been silly for Holman’s wife to have in her glory box! If I remember correctly, hers was mostly blankets and cookery -- which is common -- with a few fine pieces of linen to use for presentation clothes -- that is, the outfits newborn babes wear when they meet their extended family and friends -- and a lovely ceramic tea set.”

Balin smiled. “And yours? Do you have one?”

She nodded. “Yes; my mother’s old box, the one I nearly boxed Kili’s ears for using as a boot-scraper!” she laughed, looking around but apparently the younger prince was not within her limited vision, judging by the quiver in her smile. “Father bought a beautiful silver tea set for it, stamped with camellia blossoms -- he had to order it custom from a silversmith from your halls in Ered Luin -- as my gift on his birthday one year. And I have the Baggins family recipes and my mother’s lace patterns, both on good parchment and wrapped up tight in leather bindings. And some lace clothes for fauntlings, made by Mother for me, and my father’s mother’s brush, comb, and mirror, of silver.” she shrugged. “There’s other things here and there in it, but those are what I value most. That, and my wedding veil.”

“Your veil?” Thorin found himself asking. “Was that your mothers as well?”

She shook her head. “No -- every hobbit lass makes her own, either crocheting it of fine yard, embroidering it on linen, or making it of lace, depending on her family’s traditions. Mine is lace, made with Grandmother’s help, as Mother died before I started it.”

Not wishing to pursue that sad subject, even as he imagined her draped in fine lace, Thorin remained silent. 

But Dori asked, “You are a lacemaker, then? That is your Craft?”

She laughed, a touch sadly, but with good humor. “No -- well, yes, I can make lace, but it’s not a Craft in the way you dwarves speak of it! I’m hardly skilled enough for that!”

“Not everyone is a Master at their Craft,” Balin told her. “And not everyone earns their bread by it. Some serve as soldiers, or merchants, administrators, servants, or homemakers. But our Tarbu… that is the task we are happiest doing, loving even beyond our kin and kith, sometimes even more than our chosen spouses. It is not a jealous love,” he assured her, “not like our love of spouse or treasure sometimes tends to be; we are happy to share our Craft with apprentices or fellows, or to bring the fruits of our Craft home for our loved ones to share.”

Biliana looked up at Balin. “What is your Craft? And…” she hesitated, “if you don’t mind me asking, what was Himla’s?”

“I am a scribe,” he told her. “I was young Ori’s Master, actually, until he obtained his journeyman status last Spring,” he nodded proudly towards the young dwarf. “Himla was an armourer; she made the armor Dwalin and I were wearing the day the dragon came, and at Azanulbizar.” he told Biliana proudly. 

Biliana paused, considering this, and then asked as to the Crafts of the rest of the Company, and the dwarrow happily spoke of the beloved topic for several hours, able for a time to forget the dismal forest around them. 

Speaking of Himla started a trend among Thorin’s dwarves. Over the next few days, each of the older dwarves born in Erebor spoke of their lives before the dragon. While inevitably leaning to mournful pauses while they recalled what was lost in fire, ruin, and warfare after, the reminisces on the whole seemed a positive thing for the Company, a reminder of why they were enduring the awful woods around them. Bifur and his cousins contributed little, as Bifur rarely spoke and the brothers were quite young when they were forced to leave Erebor, but everyone else was eager to share good memories of prosperity, happiness, and security. Even Fili and Kili, while obviously never having been to Erebor themselves, shared stories inherited from their uncle and mother, as well as family stories from outside the Lonely Mountain.

“ **Adad** knew, soon as he saw **Amad** , that he wanted to marry her,” Fili told Biliana, as they ate breakfast one morning around the fire -- two days of cold food had driven them to risk again a fire, and they found that the moths did not plague them, so long as the fire was extinguished by nightfall. “She was less sure; she’s always been more reserved in temperament.”

“Really?” Biliana said with a teasing glance at Thorin. “I never would have expected that.”

Thorin’s nephews were delighted at the gentle jab and Thorin himself smiled, even as he faked a growl.

“Careful, **Iruk’dashtânul**. I’m still larger and stronger than the two of you put together.”

Kili answered by pouncing on the seated Thorin, and soon a short scuffle ensued amongst uncle and nephews, Dwalin helpfully offering advice to all three in turns. All three enjoyed themselves immensely; but if he were honest, Biliana’s laughter was Thorin’s favorite part of that morning’s tomfoolery.

Fili continued to tell tales throughout that day, with Kili or Balin chiming in occasionally to fill in or correct details. He shared at first stories of Thrór, Thráin, and Frerin -- all gone before his birth -- before returning to the theme of his parents’ marriage.

“Like I said before, **Adad** knew right away. **Amad** and **Sigun'adad** were more skeptical; apparently, the family thought **Adad** was more interested in **Amad** ’s status as the exiled princess of Erebor than in her own person.” He laughed, throwing a look at his uncle.

Thorin smiled. “We all misjudged Fidûn at first. You might have noticed, Biliana,” his eyes flashing as he looked over at the hobbit, “that the line of Durin is slow to trust.”

Her own eyes sparkled in return. “Now, what makes you say something like that?”

The exchange was not enough to engender laughter among the Company, but their faces did ease and for a minute or two they watched the forest with less suspicion.

“What was your father like, Fili?” asked Biliana. 

“Fun,” answered Kili, bounding over to walk next to the halfling. “He could even make **Amad** and **Iruk'adad** laugh!”

“He was a good dwarf,” Dwalin added. “Honorable, and devoted to his family.”

“Aye; and a fine stonemason.” Glóin sighed. “The finishing of our halls in Ered Luin would have been a sight easier, had he lived.”

“The Fell Winter.” Balin answered Billa’s unspoken question. “I understand that is what the hobbits call that awful winter that struck the region… thirty years ago now? The cold and snow made others in the mountains desperate, including a band of Dourhands -- exiles, dwarves who have been cast from their kin and kingdoms for their crimes. Sometimes Dourhands gather together in the fringes of the world as veritable hordes, like rabid hounds. They attacked, attempting to sack our half-built halls. They were repelled, but it took many days and more lives than we could spare, Fidûn included.”

The hobbit smiled sympathetically. “That was a horrid winter,” she said. “I lost my mother then, too. Not to raiders, but to sickness. Poor Father… he wooed Mother for fifteen years, as soon as he entered his tweens. and they had less than ten years together in the end.”

Balin paused in his walking, choking as she finished her short tale. Thorin looked at him in concern.

“Wh--what?” His advisor turned an alarmed eye on the hobbit. “Billa, forgive me for asking, but how old _are_ you?”

“Why would you need forgiveness for asking that?” she questioned, but answered readily enough. “I’m thirty-eight.”

The dwarves recoiled in horror. Thorin felt sick. Thirty-eight, thirty-eight, _thirty-eight_ … the number echoed in his ears like a drumbeat.

“I have bairns older than you!” Bombur exclaimed, his voice deeper than thunder.

“Where is that dratted wizard?” thundered Glóin, “I’ll rip his ears off!”

Kili let out an amused bark of laughter. “Haha! Ori, looks like we’re not the babes of the Company after all!”

Fili walloped Kili on the back of his head. “This is no laughing matter!”

“ ** _Fusak_**!” was Dwalin’s contribution, which Thorin thought actually summed up everything rather well.

Biliana looked in bewilderment from dwarf to dwarf. “What on Yavanna’s green earth… what is the matter?”

“Bairns older than you!” Bombur repeated in a rumble, as if that explained everything.

“Biliana…. My dear…” Balin stumbled around, trying to put their indignation into words. “A dwarfling… a dwarf is not considered full grown until sixty-five, at the youngest, and often not until closer to seventy-five. A thirty-eight year old dwarf… well, they would probably be battle ready, but they would not be considered of age until forty, and even then…”

“Gimli is sixty-two,” Glóin interjected, a bit calmer. “And Thorin judged him still too young to come, remember?”

Billa took all this in, blinking a few times.

“I imagine, then,” she began, “that your years are much longer than men’s?”

“Yes…” Balin answered. “Most live to over two hundred, if battle or labor or accident does not cut short their lives. Those of the line of Durin frequently see three hundred.”

Biliana shook her head. “Hobbits live longer than men, but not much longer! One hundred and eleven is a perfectly respectable age for a hobbit -- even my grandfather, the Old Took, he only lived to one hundred and thirty, and he’s the oldest hobbit anyone’s ever heard of!” Her hands became animated as she explained. “Hobbits come of age at _thirty-three_ , and are considered middle-aged at fifty! 

“I assure you, I am an adult, a hobbit full-grown, by all the standards of my race.” She finished with a firmness that was hard to dispute.

Still, the silence following that discussion was not the almost pleasant quiet they had experienced from time to time in that wretched forest, the enjoyable pause in free conversation among friends. Rather, it was heavy, and awkward, and set Thorin’s teeth on edge. 

Biliana, too, seemed to dislike the quiet, and took pains to end it. She practically bullied Ori into telling stories from their Eddas, asking pointed questions about long-ago heroes who had been mentioned, but not central, in the previous days’ stories. The answers were short and stumbling at first, but eventually the tales once again began to flow, Balin taking over from his former student, and the discomfort of the revelation faded -- at least for a time.

The next day, they seemed to pass through an invisible barrier, and the forest became even more unpleasant. The little light faded even more, straining their eyes, heads, and tempers. Nights became worse. No more moths -- a great blessing, especially for Biliana’s sake -- but just beyond their campsites on the path the dwarves could see many horrible, pale, bulbous eyes, like those of insects but far too large, watching and … waiting? Waiting for what? Thorin feared it was only the fae power of the elven road that held them back, and he knew all too well how fleeting the care of elves could be.

*****

Biliana could sense that her dwarves were even more stiff and wary the longer they were in the woods, but she could not understand why. The moths no longer plagued their nighttimes, but they glared into the darkness with suspicion. She thought they might see something she could not, but Balin would not tell her anything, nor would anyone else. Kili had been about to crack, she was sure of it, but Thorin had stepped between the hobbit and his younger nephew. He took her newly-healed hand from Balin, either not noticing or gallantly ignoring her blush, and sent her guardian (her **ushmar** , as Dori had explained it) up to the front to lead for a time. The path was worn and sometimes faded and it took the full attention of one dwarf to follow it closely, they had told her, and so the five oldest (minus Thorin) took it in turns to follow the path, and they would all follow him. Thorin said little, letting Ori take Balin’s role of Billa’s educator and distractor, but he remained at her side the rest of the day.

The next day started slowly. A thick, musty fog had settled over the forest as they slept, and their eyes and limbs both felt heavy. Kili wouldn’t wake at all for half an hour, and even after stumbled as badly as Billa, his eyes being as useless as hers when closed. 

More than the sleepiness, more than the numb arms and legs, there was a pervading sense of wrongness that weighed heavily upon Billa. A glance up at Balin showed that he felt it, too. Dwalin, too, seemed to be troubled, and Billa could hear Glóin and Óin arguing with Dori and Nori behind her -- about nothing more than general irritation, so far as Billa could tell. Bifur growled from even further back, and they fell silent, or more accurately began to sulk.

Billa furrowed her brow as she tried to put her finger on what was wrong, what felt so incorrect about her dwarves. They were all there; she could hear Bofur and Bombur’s heavy steps a little in front of her eyesight, and Fili and Kili were next to Dwalin, and Thorin was ahead, barking orders.

They stumbled along for a while longer, before the dreadful cry came.

“The path! Where is it? Where is the path?”

Billa froze, even as her dwarves erupted in noise around her.

“It was just here!”

“It’s here.. Just… over.. Here?”

“How did we lose the path?”

From his place at the front, Thorin bellowed, “Find it! Find the path!” And the dwarves scattered, fanning out in their searching, and for a moment Billa was completely and terribly alone. She could hear the dwarves as they searched, stumbling and swearing and shouting back and forth. But for that wretched instance, she could see no friend, no path; and she was afraid in ways she had not even been in the goblin-town, or in the fiery thicket of fir trees.

“Biliana?” 

She turned to see Thorin looking down at her, concerned. Vaguely, she noted she was shaking.

“The… the path? Did you find it?”

He shook his head. “We will,” he assured her. “We will.” He tried to smile, but Billa’s heart only sank.

They did not find the path. Not then, nor as they walked along, looking together with Billa safely ensconced in the middle of the pack. To make matters worse, they could find no dry wood that night, when darkness and exhaustion forced them to stop, and all Glóin and Óin’s attempts at making a fire produced only rank smoke. Bofur, dear, happy Bofur, could say nothing better than “cheer up, lass.At least we’re all together.” Even as he said it, his own voice sounded like a funeral.

 

The next day was no better, nor the third. They were all anxious; they knew their stores would not last much longer, and the forest was big enough that they could wander for a year and a day and not come out the other side. Had she been able to see well enough to leave Balin’s gentle care, Billa would have slipped away at night to weep.

They assigned watches, still, though more than one dwarf grumbled that there was hardly any point; they couldn’t see much better than Bilana in that dark, after all. Billa wasn’t sure who Thorin said was on watch that night, and couldn’t much care, wanting only to sleep and forget their desperate situation for a few hours.

She awoke unable to move her legs. Her blanket was worn, very worn by then, and gave generously when she pushed against it. But now her legs were encased like sausages, pressed together almost to the point of pain. And there was a noise, like the clacking of sticks together, above her. 

Opening her eyes, she was first surprised that she could see, and then dearly wished she couldn’t. A spider, large and absolutely _disgusting_ , was winding its glowing webs around her as if she were a fly. She froze, staring up at it in horror, but as its webs wound up her thighs her mind snapped to attention, and her hand flew to her little sword, still uncovered at the hilt. She drew her blade, slashing in the dim light before the spider could respond to the sound. The monstrous creature gave an unholy shriek and fell to the ground beside her, legs twitching in the empty air.

Quick as as flash, she had freed herself from the webbing and cried aloud as she looked around for her friends. Her heart sank; they were gone. The spider must have taken off her friends before coming back for her, the smallest of the Company. She fought back her panic, knowing at once what she must do, though she dearly wishes she needn’t.

_Well_ , she thought, _nothing to it_. And she began to follow the glowing strands, sword at the ready in case the spider had friends of its own. A curious change came over her as she followed the eerie clue. She felt a different person, fiercer and bolder. Later, she would reflect that the change had actually begun some time before, on a cliffside engulfed in flames, but for now she treasured the newfound fire in her heart as she plunged forward in the dark. Following the glowing thread, she came at last to a place that, compared to the rest of that dark forest, was awash with light. Webs of that same sickly hued light tangled together, one behind and over and mixed together. She saw, peering into the webs, that there were many spiders, huge and terrible, busily working.

She faltered, just for a moment, as she watched the many spiders forming large cocoons that could only contain Thorin and her friends. But then she remembered the spider she had already killed, and her back straightened as she took a deep breath. She might just be a fly in their eyes, but they would learn some flies could sting.

_Sting_ … she thought, looking down at her little blade. She smiled. Yes, Sting would do quite well as a name for the sword. But that was for later.

Even invisible and armed with her fierce little sword, she doubted very much she could take all of them at once. Glancing down, she saw several large stones, hard and smoothed round -- perfect for throwing a great good distance -- around her feet. She snatched a few up, and threw. The first hit one particularly large spider right in its central bulbous eye, and it recoiled back, falling off the tree to lie senseless on the ground. 

A second stone followed the first, and another spider dropped dead. The spiders then forgot all about their dwarven captives, and sprinted towards the area they thought the stones were coming from. But quick as a flash, Billa danced away, now between her dwarves and their foes. A third stone went far over the arachid bodies, making a clatter and clank deeper into the forest. Spiders skittered off, chasing the sound, and Billa turned to the cocoons. Sting flashed in the low light, and two cocoons fell down onto the branch. Another few quick but careful cuts, and Balin and Dwalin lay visible in the sticky silk. 

She had to shake him hard, using all her strength, to make Balin stir. An oozing welt on his neck revealed why, and she feared the effects the spider-venom would have on his and others of the Company. But finally he woke, and was on his feet with a speed that belied his age and situation. He had Dwalin awake quickly after, and the sons of Fundin looked to their kinswoman.

“What happened?” Dwalin growled. Billa shrugged.

“I’m not yet entirely sure; but we have bigger problems than that! The rest of the Company are still in their cocoons and,” her ears twitched. “I can hear the spiders returning!”

Dwalin reached back for his axes, but she shook her head.

“Free the others,” she told him. “I will do the stinging!”

She spun away from her guardians and sprinted back towards the increasing noise. Balin cried out, but she willed herself again invisible, and his protest turned to an undignified yelp of surprise. Despite her situation, Billa smiled at the sound.

There were still far too many spiders to fight, but she needed to give her guardians as much time as possible to free and wake the others. Perhaps it was her desperation, or perhaps the lack of restful sleep and good food, but to keep the spiders’ attention, Billa decided to sing.

> _Old fat spider spinning in a tree!_  
>  _Old fat spider can’t see me!_  
>  _Attercop! Attercop!_  
>  _Won't you stop_ ,  
>  _Stop your spinning and look for me!_

She kept going, singing at the top of her lungs, making up the words as she went. 

> _Old Tomnoddy, all big body,_  
>  _Old Tomnoddy can’t spy me!_  
>  _Attercop! Attercop!_  
>  _Down you drop!_  
>  _You'll never catch me up your tree!_

Billa knew her rhymes weren’t very good -- her father would have called them dreadful -- but they did the job; either because some fae power allowed the spiders to understand her insults or, more likely, because the racket she was making was quite distracting, the spiders followed her, and she led them on a merry chase, trying to give Balin and Dwalin as much time as possible. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a few spiders break off from the pursuit, turning back towards their nests. She sang again: 

> _Here am I, naughty little fly;_  
>  _you are fat and lazy_.  
>  _You cannot trap me, though you try,_  
>  _in your cobwebs crazy._

Then she laughed, delighting in the sound of furious clicking and clacking behind her. If any got too close, then it lost a leg or an eye; while that revealed, for a moment, where exactly she was, Billa was always able to dance just out of reach of pincers or webs. 

On and on she raced, not in a straight line, but turning here and there, wanting not to lose her way back to her friends. She did, however, continue going further and further away, careful not to accidentally lead the spiders back to the victims until she was sure they could defend themselves. Eventually, she reached places where there again was more darkness than glowing silk. As she neared the end of their webs, and thus the low light, she silently doubled back, confident that her guardians had everyone free and awake by now.

They were free and awake, but that was much less satisfying a picture than it ought to be. Elves had found the Company in her absence and -- going by the raised bows and scowls -- the meeting was not going well. Were Thorin’s hands being bound? Billa barely managed to strangle her indignant squawk. 

All of her dwarves, in fact, were being led away with bound hands, their swords and axes confiscated (though Billa suspected they had missed at least a few of Nori’s flat blades and Fili’s own extensive collection of sharp objects). Thorin seemed almost oblivious to his surroundings, being too busy trying to set the elf captain’s head on fire with his glare. The captain looked different from his soldiers; his bearing was nobler, his eyes brighter, and he had a touch of Rivendell in him -- just a touch, much like her cousin Amaranth still had a touch of their grandmother’s Chubb. But his scornful look was not at all like Lord Elrond’s gentle smiles.

“ _Enwenno hain_!” he commanded, and the pushes his soldiers gave broke Thorin’s gaze. He looked around, surprised, and concerned.

“ **Ekûn lu zayara**!” he cried, and then the whole Company was in a panic.

“Where did Bi-- our little bunny go?”

“B-- Little Bunny!”

“We can’t leave our little bunny to the spiders!”

Billa raced to Balin’s side, as he was far easier to reach without detection than Thorin. He was shaking, and jumped when she pressed her hand into his.

“Stop them!” she hissed. “I’m right here!”

Balin recovered quickly, but had to shout quite loudly to be heard over the cacophony. 

“ **Shosh**!” he ordered, and the dwarves fell quiet. “ **Tansisiyan**!”

The elf captain turned suspicious eyes on Balin even as the Company’s frames sagged in the relief they could not entirely hide, though they kept looking around curiosity, as if Balin had seen something they hadn’t.

“What is all this about?” the captain demanded. “What is your little bunny?”

“Just a pet, a mascot of sorts for the youngsters,” he answered. “Actually, if you would be so kind, could you send scouts to look for the poor thing? It must be terrified.”

Kili snickered, and the elf just blinked. Without a word, he pressed on, his men dragging the dwarves behind them; though Billa did notice he kept his eyes peeled on the forest floor, eyes darting back and forth as if looking for something very small and quick.

###### 

Translations:

**Khuzdul**  
**Adad** : Father  
**Amad** : Mother  
**Bannô** : Treasure  
**Bast’khuzd** : Healer  
**Ekûn lu zayara** : Someone is missing!  
**Fusak** : an oath, very impolite  
**Irak’adad** : Uncle  
**Iruk’dashtânul** : My Nephews  
**Sigun’adad** : Grandfather  
**Shosh** : Hush!  
**Tansisiyan** : She is safe!  
**Tarbu** : Craft  
**Ushmar** : Guardian   
**Yasath'khajamu** : Bride-price

_Sindarin_  
_Enwenno hain_ : Take them!


	8. Chapter 8

**Authors’ Note:** Welcome back! We hope that you enjoy our romp through Tolkien’s world. If you recognize it, it’s probably from Tolkien or Peter Jackson. If it’s an non-Tolkienian idea you’ve seen before in fanfiction, feel free to assume it’s a (most likely) subconscious allusion/tribute to the original author. Happy reading! Elle and Rhi

###### 

#  Barrels and Bonds 

###### 

_Small blessings,_ Billa reminded herself as she walked invisible alongside her captive Company. The forest became less dark and more healthy as they marched along under the watchful eyes of the elves. They suddenly seemed to cross an unmarked threshold. Billa blinked, a great weight suddenly off her shoulders. The woods slowly filled with light, and she was surprised to find the sun high in the sky above them. Surprised but delighted -- she had almost forgotten how beautiful the noonday sun was.

They came to a laughing stream and a wooden bridge. They crossed, and then they were before a gate. Billa could not quite tell when the forest ended and the gate began, for the boundary appeared blurred like the seams of a well-made garment. More elves materialized as the gate opened, watching with stern eyes as the dwarves were corralled through. 

The keen-eyed captain paused when Billa, still beside Balin, slipped past him through the gate; her guardian winced. But after a few suspicious gazes, he continued on. On and on the elves marched their dwarven captives, through caverns carved to look like a thick canopy of trees and the shifting floor of the forest. They came to another bridge, this of carven stone, under which a deep river ran. Beyond was a dais, and above that a throne, upon which a noble figure rested. 

The elven king was a beautiful sight to behold, Biliana grudgingly admitted to herself. He lounged casually on a massive oak throne, carved to look as if the seat were still part of a great living tree, dressed splendidly in embroidered vestments. Curiously, he wore no silver circlet or golden crown, but only a wreath of autumn leaves and berries. His visage would have been unbearably lovely were it not for the cold, hard look in his eyes as he gazed down upon Thorin and the Company.

“It has been a long time,” the elf said slowly, as if he were rolling the words over his tongue like a fine wine, “since Thorin Oakenshield has been seen east of the Misty Mountains. What draws you forth now, I wonder?”

Thorin has a look in his eyes Billa had never seen before, and never wished to again, but he spoke calmly enough. 

“I still have kin in the Iron Hills,” he answered the elf, “and it has been long -- as you have said -- since I have been able to visit them.”

The elf-king sneered. “With so many companions? Do they all claim the same kin?” he asked with a significant look at Bombur’s magnificent red beard.

“Many do,” Thorin shrugged, his eyes flaming but his voice still mostly calm. “And as for the rest… these roads have grown dangerous, as of late.”

Balin nudged Billa with his elbow; glancing at her guardian’s face, she left his side and came to stand beside Thorin, brushing his bound hands, resting at his waist, with one of hers. His face did not change, but after a surprised intake of breath he subtly captured her hand between his, as if snatching at a lifeline.

“They are often dangerous, I suppose, to one of Thrór’s line: the Wild does not forgive or forget easily, and he and his were -- are -- so skilled of making even friends enemies.” The elven king turned his head aside, as though dismissing the dwarrow, but Billa watched as his cold eyes keenly gauged Thorin’s response.

Rage danced across Thorin’s face, but a glance back at the Company, and perhaps Billa’s hand, pressed more firmly into his (she did not want to flatter herself, but he _did_ gently squeeze it back), allowed him to roughly swallow his words, contenting himself with glaring ever more fiercely at the taller king.

“Still,” the elf continued, “that does not excuse your sneaking around my realm without my leave.” He hid a smirk with a swallow of elvish wine as Dwalin and Kili strongly protested the word.

“Sneaking! We’re not thieves!” Dwalin roared, sharply elbowing Nori before he could make any smart comment.

“’S your own damn fault! Had you kept your smelly road safe and clear, we’d never have stepped foot on your foul forest soil!” Kili stomped his foot for emphasis. Thorin let out a quiet sigh; had the situation not been so dire, Billa suspected he might have laughed at his peeved nephew. The elf king, however, grew even colder, if such a thing were possible. 

“Your kind have proven yourselves thieves before,” he said in low voice, shifting from his lounge to settle his hands on the arms of his throne, a not so subtle reminder of who held power here, “and so I have little love for you. But forgetting insults and pains you have inflicted upon me, I would know where you are going, Do not lie --” he warned as Thorin opened his mouth, rising from his throne to descend the steps, “for I have perceived much already; the Iron Hills are no more your true destination than the Black Lands of the South. No…” he trailed off as he bent down to stare into Thorin’s angry eyes. “No; you have another place in mind: a Mountain, in truth. Yes, I read it in your eyes. Do you think yourself a hero, Thorin Oakenshield? What a tale they will tell of you! An epic quest, to slay a dragon and reclaim a stolen homeland!” He laughed dismissively and turned away from the Company, his silk robe whispering as it dragged against the stone floor.

“Some might consider such a quest noble,” he continued, “but I know too well the hearts of dwarves. You are dark, and as greedy as a dragon, if only half as ill-formed.”

The audience was momentarily interrupted by the entrance of their arresting captain. The king’s eyebrow rose with mocking elegance as the captain -- who greatly resembled the king -- presented his monarch with Orcrist, speaking in a low voice in their native tongue, though Billa could make out precious few of the words. 

“How came you by this sword?” the king demanded, turning on the dwarves sharply, true anger creeping onto his visage.

“I found it, while traveling with Gandalf the Grey,” Thorin told him, a slightly smug tone to his voice.

“And he approved of you keeping this elven heirloom, I suppose?” The anger was gone, the sneer back in place.

“It is a relic, true, of Gondolin;” Thorin allowed, “but Elrond of Rivendell, heir of the line of Turgon, approved of me bearing it.”

“Really?” came the suspicious answer. “And I don’t suppose you have any proof of this? Or the word of any not himself a dwarf?” He scoffed. “In earlier days I might have believed you, or simply not concerned myself about it; but dwarves, I know, are content to hold treasure they know is not their own.”

Billa tilted her head, confused. She could think of only one tale involving dwarven theft of elvish treasure, but what had the ancient Nauglamír have to do with Erebor or the Woodland Realm?

When Thorin failed to respond to the jab, Thranduil whirled on the dwarrow company, fury burning in his eyes. “Do not think I have forgotten your true destination, though you seek to conceal and distract me from it!” Thranduil was now truly agitated, despite Thorin’s continued silence. “You seek the treasures of the Mountain! Dwarves truly are incapable of mastering their greed for such shiny baubles.”

“Elves ought to take care,” Thorin answered quietly, gritting his teeth, “when accusing others of unmasterable greed; for what else did four times Elf slay Elf, but for such shiny baubles?”

The elven king nobly lowered his head an inch, as if acknowledging the hit. “True… elves are capable of much when seeking to recover that which rightly belongs to their line, when it is held in hostile hands -- and even more capable of remembering the theft. But that is beside the point.” With a soft rustle of robes, the king turned to ascend his throne, declaiming judgment upon the dwarves in a deceitfully emotionless manner.

“You shall not go on, not so long as you hold Erebor to be your true destination. For the good of the north, I must keep you here.” he finished with a small exhalation of false regret as he took his seat, gesturing to his guards.

“ **Imrid amrâd ursul** , you heartless father of an orc!” Thorin thundered, lunging forward, reined in by an elf-guard, Billa only narrowly avoided being crushed betwixt them. “By what right would you hold us, even if your paranoid fears were true?” 

“This is my kingdom, and all I would do is my right!” The elf-king roared back, poised atop his throne like a dragon atop its hoard, rage and fury lending color to his high cheekbones.

“Your honor ought to demand of you that you give us aid, or is the honor of elves as dissolute as your forest?” Thorin spat, wrenching an arm away from his elven guards to gesture accusingly at the King. “You sit there, safe in your woodland halls, but what of my people? That is my Mountain!”

“And you will rain down destruction upon all lands, not solely your own, should you awaken Smaug the Terrible!” The elf-king reared up in his seat, eyes aflame. “Take them away!” he cried with a violent sweep of his arm. “Let them not see the light of day until they repent of this folly!”

The guards reached the Company, and roughly began dragging them away.

Thorin struggled most, finally being forced out of the audience chamber with a cry of “ **Îsh kakhfê ai’d dur'rugnu**! You and all your kin!”

Billa, resisting the urge to throw something filthy at the elf-king’s head, followed her dwarves out of the throne room. Down and down they went, into tunnels filled with a musty scent and the constant sound of dripping water. Her dwarves were taken from the group alone or in pairs and shoved into iron cages along the tunnel walls, until only Thorin was left. He was marched along for many more minutes, down halls and up stairs and through winding corridors, until finally he, too, was locked away, out of even earshot of the rest of the Company. Having recollected himself, he offered no violence to his jailers, restraining himself merely to a venomous glare that remained fixed upon them until they passed beyond his sight. Then, in a whisper, he asked: 

“Billa?”

She re-appeared with a relieved sigh. Though he did not manage a proper smile, his lips did twitch upward when he saw her. 

“You are unharmed?” At her nod, he continued. “Good. At least one thing has gone well this day. Dwalin is quite impressed with you, you know.” His lips approached a true smile for a moment. “And Balin, too, of course, though he questions your judgement in going off alone.”

“I was invisible, and therefore in much less danger to those horrid creatures than any of you would have been,” she defended herself primly. “I’m just glad I came back in time! I can’t imagine what I would have done, if I returned to find you all gone!”

Thorin shuddered against the thought, and changed the subject. 

“Invisible, you say? I did not fully believe it, before this day. I feared Balin was lying to keep the others calm, until I felt you put your hand in mine -- it could have been no one else.” His brow furrowed, taking in her visage with concern. “It is taxing upon you.”

“A bit.” Her hand went to her forehead, rubbing it gently. “More wearing than anything. It’s like… well, I suppose it might be a bit like bundling yourself up in armour. It’s useful -- life-saving, even -- but each step takes just a bit more effort than normal. I’ll be fine,” she rushed to assure him, “while I sneak around looking how to get you out. Having a focus -- a purpose -- helps.”

He did not look altogether reassured, but he did not attempt to dissuade her, saying only,

“Be careful here; elves’ eyes and ears are far more keen than spiders’ or trolls’.”

Billa rolled her eyes. “High praise; but yes, yes,” she assured him as he opened his mouth again, “I’ll be careful. I can hardly break you out if I’m in a cage myself!”

Thorin finally allowed himself a real smile.

“Gandalf really did find me an excellent burglar, didn’t he?” he said almost to himself. “Well, then, Miss Baggins, we are in your hands, and better ones I can’t imagine.”

 

Billa left soon after, Thorin having finally remarked that there was no doubt their remaining companions were growing fraught in their panic over their king. Agreeing, Billa carefully began the slow journey back to her friends, memorizing each and every marker she spotted, to insure she could retrace her steps back to Thorin. Her head was starting to pound a bit -- being invisible was starting to wear on her, but she didn’t see the need for it ending anytime soon -- and her feet ached by the time she caught sight of the corridor holding everyone’s cages. 

She exhaled when she reached Nori and Dwalin’s cage. Looking around carefully, and listening a bit longer, she decided all was safe, and let herself become visible. Exclamations and demands for explanations greeted her from most of the dwarves, mixed with some cheering, but they were silenced by a mix of Dwalin’s rebukes and Fili’s curt orders.“ **Shosh**! Billa, are you alright?” he asked urgently, even as he beckoned her over to his cage.

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” she assured everyone, speaking barely above a whisper. They all fell silent, straining to hear her every word. “And so is Thorin!” she smiled as Fili’s frame sagged in relief. “He’s been locked up a fair bit away from here; beastly elves and their horrid cages!”

“Bravo, Billa!” Kili teased from the cell behind her. “I think that is the first poor word you’ve had to say about one of the Fair Folk!”

She huffed, folding her arms in front of her.

“Well, it’s the first time any have locked up my friends!” She frowned; relieved about the relative safety of her companions, she turned her thoughts to the Elven King. “I just don’t understand why a King would be so unreasonable! What was all that nonsense about skulking and thievery? And how kingly is it to still be sulking over the Nauglamír! That was two Ages ago!”

“Naug-- no, he wasn’t speaking of the Necklace of the Dwarves.” Fili shifted his feet a bit, but waved off Balin’s silent offer to finish the sordid explanation. “His complaint… is not unknown to us, and truthfully… not entirely unreasonable.” The dwarf prince winced at the look of bemusement on Billa’s open face.

“The feud dates back to my great-grandfather’s time, in his last year reigning under the Mountain.” Fili’s eyes became slightly distant as he spoke, the tale clearly bitterly familiar to him.

“King Thrór had sent his armies to Gundabad, an ancient dwarven place -- where Durin awoke, even, before he found his way to Khazad-dûm. But orcs had defiled it years before, squatting there even still, we believe, when darker things do not dwell there. His armies did not conquer the mountain, but they did return home laden with treasure, for the treasuries of the orcs were not well fortified. Much of the treasure was the legacy of our peoples, but there was one to which our claim was … less certain.

“In the years before Durin’s Bane awoke, before even Sauron the Deceiver troubled the elf smiths of Eregion, Durin -- the third of his name, who counted among his friends Celebrimbor the heir of Fëanor -- had made for the elf lord a headdress, meant for his future lady whenever he should choose one, of silver and white gems as of starlight. But Celebrimbor was Craft-wed, and so he gave the headdress to another, the elven princess Lasgalen, upon her marriage to Thranduil of the Woodland Realm.” 

Billa’s jaw dropped open. The princeling sighed, shaking his head.

“She had vanished, long before the foundation of the Kingdom of Erebor, lost in an orc raid. Our soldiers found no sign of her in Gundabad, save the headdress.

“It ought to have been returned to Thranduil. My great-grandfather sent for him, in order -- Uncle believes -- to do so. But elves are cold, and Thranduil did not show the gratitude Thrór expected, nor did he acknowledge the skill and bravery of the warriors who had recovered that heirloom for him by their blood and sweat.”

Here he paused, struggling for the right words. 

‘Thrór had the Gems of Lasgalen brought forth, displayed for the elven king, but when he went to grasp them… they were snatched away.”

Billa tried to swallow her gasp of horror, but a strangled noise escaped her throat. Fili nodded.

“Uncle Thorin was horrified, but one does not speak against the King, especially in front of outsiders. Thranduil departed, and nary a friendly word has passed between the Woodland Realm and the children of Durin since. Of course,” he finished with a sad smile, “that mattered less than you might think, for the dragon came upon our people only weeks later.”

Billa looked down at her feet as Fili finished his story, wanting to weep for she knew not whom.

“Don’t go feeling too sorry for the **amrâl'zars** now, lass!” Nori warned, pointing his finger at her sternly when she looked up. “He’s still an arse.”

“Aye,” Dori agreed, for once not scolding Nori for his language. “Thorin is hardly his grandfather, after all. Nor are we _skulking thieves_ ,” he spat as if the words were poison. Nori snorted, but fell silent when Dwalin elbowed him again, not particularly gently. 

Fili shook his head, putting the tale behind him. “But my uncle? You are sure he is unharmed?”

Billa gave him a comforting smile. “He’s madder than a badger with an itch, I think, but unharmed.” 

Billa suspected it was Dwalin who snorted that time, but she kept her eyes on Fili. The prince’s eyes narrowed in thought.

“Well… we are all safe and sound, at least for the present, and the elves probably don’t intend to starve us,” he paused as an idea hit him. “Bofur, Kili, Nori, save a bit of your food when it comes, for Billa. We don’t want her to risk stealing food if we can manage. Next meal, Dwalin, Ori, and I will, and then Balin, Oin, and Dori. Then you last three.” Looking back at Biliana, he continued. 

“You’ll have to be our eyes and ears on this one, Billa. See if you can’t find our packs and weapons -- our things wouldn’t suit soft elven hands, so they’re probably just stored somewhere. And see if you can’t keep track of the keys to our cells.”

“And a means of escape,” Balin added, looking pleased at the younger dwarf. “And be sure to keep Thorin informed, too.”

“That’s enough,” Dwalin interjected, rolling his eyes when Billa turned her gaze to his. “Or do you want to give her more tasks to do? Veins that need mining, perhaps?”

Fili blushed, but Balin just sighed and shook his head.

“It’s not too much!” Billa assured them, though she sent a grateful smile to Dwalin. “Look for our things, find out where the keys are kept, and a way of escape. And let you and Thorin know what I find. I can manage that!”

 

That evening began a pattern Billa observed with little variation for the next three weeks. She spent her nights exploring, looking for their packs and weapons as well as, most importantly, a means of escape. Every morning, she would report back to her dwarves, soon after they were given their food for the day (they were only fed once a day, but the portions were generous, and the dishes were not taken away until the next morning). She would give any news first to Fili (with Balin and the others carefully listening in) while she ate a portion of the food they had saved her, pocketing the rest for lunch and dinner (her eating habits, she realized with a groan, had become thoroughly dwarven in the preceding months), and then she would make the long, winding way to Thorin’s alcove. After repeating her intelligence, she’d sleep, invisible, in the small niche next to his cell door, confident the dwarf-king would keep watch over her resting place. Well, sleep as much as she was able, with her joints aching and her head pounding. Her whole body protested how long she remained invisible, but there was nothing for it. No use complaining. 

The best parts of her days were spent with Thorin, if she had strength enough to linger after relaying her intelligence: elven guards rarely wandered past his cell, so she could become visible, give her aching head and limbs a reprieve. Both would remain alert, and guards did come by often enough to make sleeping visible foolhardy, but she and he could often have close to two hours uninterrupted in conversation. She wondered at how easy she felt around him; ever since his apology at Beorn’s, they had fallen into an easy and comfortable relationship.

Whether through boredom or an honest desire to know, Thorin asked Billa much of her life before that unexpected party Gandalf had arranged. She had at first asked similar questions in return, but asking Thorin of Erebor in Mirkwood’s cells was uncomfortable, to say the least. So she spoke of the Shire, of its gardens and crops, streams and groves. She told him of her childhood as the sole child of an adventurous mother and solid father, their trips together to Bree and Oatbarton (which, though technically part of the Northfarthing, was considered as odd as Breeland to Hobbiton residents), and other little joys and pleasures. She tried to keep her words light, avoiding at first the sorrows of first her mother’s sudden loss and then her father’s long illness, but eventually she mentioned them and, when pressed, told him the stories in full.

He was more willing to speak of past sorrows than past joys, and shared in return his own mother’s loss during the long, hard journey from Erebor to somewhere, anywhere that would shelter them. And later his father’s disappearance, years after the battle in which Thrór (and, she learned, his beloved younger brother Frerin) had been slain.

“My father was not unchanged by the loss of Erebor,” Thorin grimaced, “but he still had all his sense. But the loss of **Amad** , and then of his father and then Frerin…” he shook his head. “He wanted to go into Moria, after the battle was won; we were hard pressed to dissuade him. Had Dáin not been there, I think we would not have.” But then he grimaced, and would say no more of Dáin or his words. 

“A few years later, Father left for Erebor; I thought it madness, though now I wonder if he did not have the same plan as **Tharkûn** , but he did not, so far as I know, seek the wizard to reclaim the map or the key. He took few companions, and made it only as far as the shores of the Anduin.” Thorin paused and shook his head mournfully.

“A fog came, and scattered his companions. When they found themselves again, he was not among them. And there has been no sign of him since.”

They sat in silence for a long time afterwards. Thorin lost in grief, Billa unknowing how to comfort him. Finally, she lifted a trembling hand and reached through the bars of his cage; he took it, squeezing it gratefully. There they stayed, frozen, until Billa heard footprints against the stone.

 

Billa was thoroughly miserable, both in body and in heart. Guilt began to gnaw at her. The others always praised her: Balin would pat her hand through the bars and compliment her stealth and effort, and Thorin would smile softly and thank her; and every day she felt worse and worse. An idea was persistently growing in her mind, no matter how stubbornly she tried to banish it.

She had discovered the barrels -- and the hatch that released them into the river -- on the third day of exploring, when searching for a kitchen sink and soap with which to bathe. Her vanity had been demanding it for some time, but she hadn’t given into the temptation until she saw an elf maid wrinkle her nose when passing by her hiding place. Alarmed that she might be discovered by stench, of all the humiliating possibilities, Billa had hunted down the wash basin and scrubbed herself and her clothing clean, never minding that the soap was better suited to cast iron pans than hobbit skin. (Before, she would have felt guilty at the theft of the soap, but necessity drove her, and she assured herself that she could pay the elves back with interest, once the mountain was theirs. She did not remember the particulars, but she was sure that some bit of the treasure had been promised her in the contract.)

At first, she had consoled herself that the barrels would never float if filled with her dwarves, but then a week later she saw one filled almost to the brim with venison sealed and tossed into the running water, “a present for Bard and his men.” Still, she hesitated even to consider the idea, much less mention it to Thorin or the others. The river was dark and swift, looking as if death itself to the poor hobbit lass. She began to toss in her sleep, lost her appetite. The concerned looks of her friends made her feel even worse; what were her fears compared to their freedom? Their chance to return home? Óin, she knew, was keeping a count of how many days remained until Durin’s Day, and she doubted he was the only one.

She even had a means of retrieving the keys to their cages. Elves might be immortal, but Billa was quick to discover that they shared many of the same foibles as the lesser-lived folk. First that beastly king and his grudges, then the guards who complained about their posts, and finally the Keeper of the Keys and the Steward, who spent almost every evening getting drunk on their lord’s wine. That, at least, was a fault Billa could take advantage off in her quest to free her friends: the Keeper was careful always to set the key-ring upon a hook before he sat down, but he never looked back to check them once the wine was poured.

_Three more nights,_ she told herself. _I’ll take three more nights to search for another way, and if I still can’t find one…_

Her stomach tying itself in knots, Billa vainly tried to sleep.

The next night provided no other options, nor the next -- though at least she discovered the packs and weapons in a storeroom she had long overlooked, as it was unguarded and therefore, she had wrongly assumed, unimportant. The final night of her resolution found her desperately hunting for some way, any way, to escape those wretched caves that did not lead to the river. But she found none.

She was fighting tears when she returned to Fili and Balin that next morning, though she tried to play it off as merely being overtired. Dwalin tried to convince her to sleep there, that they would keep watch and make noise if necessary to wake her, but she insisted on making her usual journey to Thorin. If she did not tell him now, she feared, she might never again find the resolve to do so. 

She barely let him greet her before she began.

“I have a way out,” she spoke in a rush. “But you won’t like it.”

His eyebrows disappeared into his hair. Then he glanced around his cell sardonically.

“I cannot imagine I will like it less than Thranduil’s hospitality.”

Billa grimaced. “I’m not so sure.”

She told him of the river and the barrels, the packs and the weapons in the unguarded storeroom, of the Steward’s and the Keeper of the Keys’ regular drinking parties; she held back only any confession of her own terror. 

He was silent for a long time, his brow furrowed as he fully thought through the plan and its likely consequences. Finally, he sighed.

“I am not eager to face the river -- nor, I suspect, are you - but I trust your word that there is no other way. We must risk it.” He sighed again, ignoring her blushes at being caught out. “Do you think you could place our gear and weapons in the barrels beforehand without detection?”

She nodded, before recalling --

“All but Orcrist; I didn’t want to tell you before,” she admitted with a grimace, “but the elf-captain wears it now upon his hip, and I am wary of attempting to burgle an elf so openly, when all of you --”

“Don’t. Do not even think of attempting it.” He scowled, but his features soon softened. “I begrudge him the blade, but still I hold it small enough of a price for our freedom. Rest, now, for I would like, if possible, to be off tonight. Erebor is waiting.”

 

It was almost too easy. The packs were still unguarded, the barrels unwatched. Billa was able to make as many trips as necessary without any incident. Like clockwork, the Keeper of the Keys came down to the wine cellar to take his cup from the Steward. Soon both were deep asleep, and the keys vanished from their resting place.

She raced down the tunnels, all the way back to Thorin’s cell. She had judged it best to work back to front, and also wished to free her-- the king as soon as possible. He grinned at her as the lock turned. He started towards her as the door opened, as if he might embrace her, but he caught himself, and contented himself with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder. And then they were off, racing towards the others and freedom.

Again, it was almost too easy. Billa caught herself almost half-hoping for scare, a delay, anything to put off the moment when she had to face the waters. But they reached the barrels in excellent time, and each dwarf was swiftly in his proper barrel, lid shut, to be dropped one by one into the waters. Standing there alone for one miserable moment, Billa summoned her courage and lept into the river, following them.

The current took them swiftly down the river. Billa, after a desperate flurry of clumsy movements when she entered the water, clung tightly to Ori’s barrel, as it was the lightest. All was well, for a time. Then, at the faint light between the setting of the moon and rising of the sun, the river became shallower, the tips of large rocks peeked out above the water, and the current increased.

Soon, they were in the middle of full-fledged rapids. For poor Biliana, who had only been in such an amount of water once before, when fright for another had made her completely forget her own peril, it was a nightmare come to life. The water alone was frightening enough, but the jutting rocks proved more dangerous to Billa as Ori’s barrel bumped against them with increasing speed, leaving bruises all along her frame. Then, disastrously, her left hand was crushed between the barrel and a particularly tall stone. She let go without thinking, instinctively cradling her hand to her chest, but her right hand was insufficiently strong to keep hold of the wet barrel by itself, and she was torn away and completely submerged in the cold river, alone.

For a wild moment, she was completely lost in the dark waters, unsure which way even was up. She had to breathe; she couldn’t take a breath. The longing, the agonizing need for air torn her lungs apart; she might have given in, might have swallowed water if only to end the suspense, had not a late-coming barrel struck her head -- and suddenly she could reorient herself. The blow bruised the back of her skull, but that was a worry for later. Before the barrel slipped past her, Billa grasped at it with all the strength desperation could give her, and she wrenched her head above the waterline. She was shaking, her eyes watering, her breath gasping. But she was alive, and had a new chance of remaining so.

And just like that, the river smoothed out again. The moments of terror -- and however long they felt, Billa suspected it had only been minutes -- gave way to long hours of monotony, as the speed of the barrels was reduced almost to a crawl. The sun rose, and peacefully traveled through the sky, up to her noonday post. Billa’s arms began to burn, but she dare not relax her grip, even in the relatively gentle flow. Her eyes grew heavy as the sun began her downward journey, but Billa dared not sleep. She did not know who would first spot the barrels, and she needed to be aware of when it happened. 

The river flowed into a large lake. A wooden town -- which had to have been built on piles -- began to appear in the distance. The barrels drifted closer, and voices could be heard, speaking Westron, but of an accent Billa was unfamiliar with. Tired, afraid, sore, and wary, Billa willed herself invisible before the voice’s forms could become visible, not wishing either to face the men -- as she presumed they must be -- if unfriendly, or even answer their questions, if not, alone.

The barrels came to a harbor, where long wooden piers created an artificial enclosure on three sides. Using long poles, the men corralled the barrels into an even smaller enclosure, which they sealed off by securing a thick rope on other side.

“Didn’t know t’ elves be sending anything, did you?” One man asked another in a reedy voice.

“Nah. Must be fer Bard ‘gain, not Master. He’d crow too much bout it, if it t’were him.” Another snorted in agreement.

“Fer Bard? We bring ‘em up, then?” the first asked, looking up at the sinking sun. The second seemed to consider it, but he eventually shook his head.

“Bard didn’t tell us ta keep watch; he wants ‘em fast, he warn us. He can wait till marrow.” He dropped his pole on the pier. “We don’t works for ‘im, anyways.”

The others agreed readily enough, and soon the pier was empty, save for the discarded poles. With a burst of eager energy, Billa scrambled onto the wooden structure, kicking several barrels in the process. Finally, she was completely out of the water and back on (relatively) safe, solid ground. 

She took a few precious moments to lie, gasping, upon the pier. Then, forcing her burning muscles to action, she wrenched herself to her feet and stumbled over to the first barrel, where she grasped at the lid with numb fingers. A few clumsy moments later, Thorin’s baleful face glared up at her. Wet and grumpy, he pulled himself out of the barrel with the air of an affronted housecat. His indignity was cut short, however, as he got a good look at his burglar.

“You look dreadful.”

She glanced up at him (when has she sat down? She didn’t remember choosing to do so), a bemused half-smile flickering across her face.

“You’re very welcome, I’m sure,” she answered, a touch primly.

His own half-smile appeared, though it was rather bedraggled. 

“Well, yes, thank you, but honestly. You look half-drowned.”

“Honestly?” she admitted. “I feel a little more than _half_ -drowned.”

His eyebrows rose at her admission.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “I will free the others.”

He did so immediately, wresting open the barrel that held Kili inside. The lad went to assist his uncle, but a few quiet words had him racing over to Billa’s side.

“You look awful!” he told her.

“Thank you Kili, your uncle mentioned that.” She sighed. “If I ever see more water than what fits in a bathtub ever again, it would be too soon.”

Kili’s normal smile was replaced with a look of real concern, but he restrained himself to awkwardly hovering over her as his uncle freed the rest of the Company. Once every barrel was empty, weapons hanging from belts and packs on backs, Thorin came over to Billa and helped her to her feet under the watchful eyes of the others. Balin seemed surprised to find her in such a condition, and Dwalin looked angry.

Thorin raced his hand before any could speak. “Let us go into town; and let us hope they are well disposed towards visitors. More than one of us, I think,” he continued with a significant look at Billa, “could use a hot meal and a warm bed.”

They walked along the pier towards the town. At the threshold, they found a small wooden gate, watched by a single man, who paid them no attention until Gloin cleared his throat. He jumped, falling on the ground and dropping his spear. He glared at them as he struggled to his feet, one hand attempting to straighten his helm. Someone, probably Nori, snickered in the back. The noise of the ignoble spectacle attracted the attention of a number of men and women who were congregated around the gate, closing shops and gossiping about the day. 

“Who’re ‘oo?” demanded the guard, who looked more than half-drunk. 

“Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain,” said Thorin, and despite his damp clothes he looked it. “I have returned!”

###### 

Translations:  
 **Amrâl'zars** : tree-shagged (singular)  
 **Imrid amrâd ursul**!: Die a death of flames!  
 **Îsh kakhfê ai’d dur'rugnu**!: may excrement be poured into your [open] mouth!; colloquially, “I excrete in your face!”  
 **Shosh**!: hush!, be quiet!


	9. Fevered Excitement

**Authors’ Note:** Welcome back! We hope that you enjoy our romp through Tolkien’s world. If you recognize it, it’s probably from Tolkien or Peter Jackson. If it’s an non-Tolkienian idea you’ve seen before in fanfiction, feel free to assume it’s a (most likely) subconscious allusion/tribute to the original author. Happy reading! Elle and Rhi

###### 

#  Fevered Excitement 

The reaction of the crowd was instantaneous, and loud. Fili carefully kept his face impassive as the men and women before them tittered, gesturing wildly and speaking in ever increasing volumes of good fortune, prophecies, and disbelief. Thorin merely raised his eyebrow, fixing the guard with the look Fili had seen many times in his childhood: the ‘well? Aren’t you going to hop to?’

“Are we to be kept out here like unwanted vagrants?” the dwarf-king asked coldly. “Or will you fetch your master to greet us?”

The drunken fool fell down twice more in his haste to scamper away, and Thorin strode confidently through the gate, gazing imperiously upon the gathered masses. The rest followed, Dwalin of course at Thorin’s right, only half a step behind, while Fili moved to his left. He wished he could glance back, make sure someone was helping poor exhausted Biliana, but now was not the time to show either weakness or indecision -- or anything that could be mistaken for it.

The crowd parted to let them pass, falling strangely silent as Thorin and his Companions moved through them. A second, much younger guard approached the dwarrow, eyes bulging with excitement, and bade them, stumbling over his words, to follow. 

They were led through the dilapidated town, watched eagerly by whispering men and women and wide-eyed children. Eventually they came into a small square, framed by better quality buildings and a stately town hall. Waiting on the steps was a large, fat, balding man and a small dark thing -- Fili supposed it, too, was a man -- lurking by his side. Arrayed behind him was a cadre of the well-to-do of the townsfolk, though their finery was threadbare and worn.

“Welcome, Welcome!” The fat man crowed, flinging his arms wide and twirling his hands in a flamboyantly foolish approximation of courtly gesture. “Welcome to Laketown, King Under the Mountain! I am its humble Master, and I speak for all when I say this winsome occasion is beyond all our hopes!” He bowed deeply, a chain of office flapping against slightly faded garments of garish ornamentation.

He continued speaking after rising, still in loquacious terms, but Fili noted dryly that his eyes never left the golden chain visible around Thorin’s neck.

“But where are my manners!” the Master cried. “Come, come! You must be hungry, and it shan’t do to keep such distinguished guests waiting!” He gestured dramatically behind him, towards the open doors of the hall. “Join my friends and me, for a most deliquescent repose!” Most of the dwarrow in normal situations would have rushed in, Fili knew, but they calmly if resolutely followed Thorin as he made his stately way into the building. The Master’s eyes, and those of his shadow, darted back and forth across the forms of each Companion, lingering uncomfortably long on Biliana. Fili frowned, and signaled Bofur to remain close to her side: he would have done it himself, or sent her kinsmen, but Balin and Dwalin had their own parts to play in this uncertain place. He was happy to note, then, when she was seated across from him and Kili, from where they sat at their uncle’s left, Dwalin and Balin on his right. Food was quickly served, and most but not all, of it was welcome.

“Push these away, would you Kee?” he gestured towards a plate of baked apples, trying not to wince. “My barrel stank of apples, and I never want to smell any again.”

Laughing, Kili obliged, but not before transferring a large spoonful onto his own plate, eating it with great enjoyment as his brother watched in distaste. He laughed at Fili’s face.

“You were lucky! I’m not sure what was in my barrel before, but it didn’t smell so pleasant as fruit!”

The banter continued for some time, Bofur joining into the princes’ conversation much more freely than he would have at the beginning of the Quest. Biliana, however, said nothing. Fili was growing concerned, and, judging by the frequent looks Thorin and Dwalin were sending her way, so were they.

The food flowed abundantly, as did the wine. It wasn’t particularly good wine, but it merried their hearts nonetheless. Nori’s eyes were bright, and he had struck up a boisterous conversation with a gaggle of the Master’s threadbare hangers-ons, gesticulating wildly and gawping at their stories. He certainly looked deep in his cups, but Fili knew him well enough by then to know that it was largely an act: he certainly had not reduced his vigilance over the crowd. They might have enjoyed themselves more, relishing their renewed freedom and relative safety, but none of them could to relax, wary of the Master and his ever-fawning minion, and worried about their hobbit.

Throughout the dinner, she turned down multiple offerings of food (a first for the halfling lass), and grew paler and began to cough and shiver as the night dragged on. She buried her face into her sleeve, trying to keep her coughs and sniffles quiet, and it seemed the men around them did not, in fact, notice, but her dwarrow did. Bofur worked hard to help hide her weakness, and drew rather more attention to himself than perhaps necessary when wandering eyes turned her way. But when her head began to droop, Thorin rose to his feet. 

“I thank you, most heartily, for your generosity, and your company this evening,” the king began as Fili gestured for their Company to rise. “But our journey has not been kind, and we are ready to procure lodgings for the night, if you would be willing to direct us to an inn.”

Biliana swayed perilously; out of the corner of his eye, Fili noted Bofur and Dori closing ranks with the hobbit woman, Dori catching her arm as Bofur’s hand went to the small of her back. Unfortunately, the movement caught the Master’s eye.

“And what sort of creature is this companion of yours? She seems too small to be a dwarven lady!” His tone was even more unpleasant than before as he peered down at her.

Fili tensed; Thorin grit his teeth. But Balin answered smoothly with a politician’s benevolent smile, but with a tone Fili knew was a warning.

“This is Biliana, my kinswoman.” He drew himself up, his hands relaxed and poised, but in easy reach of his **thatrzagr**. “A Lady of the line of Fundin.”

The Master blinked; his lackey moved closer to Billa, but drew back when Dwalin cracked his knuckles; the bustle of many people muted the sharp sounds but the implied threat was tangible. Their burglar sighed quietly, but said nothing.

“Oh, my apologies!” The Master’s face shifted, becoming much more fawning.“Oh, my apologies! I meant no offense, but it has been so long since any dwarf-ladies were seen in these parts!” 

“Dwarrowdam, actually, but that is beside the point.” Balin waved a hand. “And no offense is taken. But we truly must beg your leave to seek our beds. I’m afraid we are all quite exhausted, and shan’t be good company for much longer. The inn is…?”

“Oh, an inn is no place for a King and his companions!” The Master flapped his thick hand dismissively. “Please, take your rest in my family home; I rarely have time to remain there anymore, so busy am I seeing to the affairs of state! But still, it is a lovely home, and quite large enough to suit your needs!”

Thorin hesitated; Fili, too, worried that accepting would put them more in the debt of this unknown buffoon, but to refuse would be ungrateful, and still they needed his goodwill and that of his people, who waited on Thorin’s every word with bated breath.

“You are most generous, above any claim or expectation of mine, to an exile and his friends,” Thorin said at last. “And we most gratefully accept your kind offer.”

This was the right answer, so far as the gathered men were concerned, and they roared their approval. Guards escorted the dwarrow and their hobbit to the large wooden house, but a good deal of the men, both from inside the hall and waiting outside, followed in procession after them, cheering and singing songs.

> _The King beneath the Mountain,_   
>  _The King of carven stone_   
>  _The lord of silver fountains_   
>  _Shall come into his own!_
> 
> _His crown shall be upholden,_   
>  _His harp shall be restrung,_   
>  _His halls shall echo golden,_   
>  _To songs of yore re-sung._
> 
> _The woods shall wave on mountains_   
>  _And grass beneath the sun;_   
>  _His wealth shall flow in fountains_   
>  _And the rivers golden run._
> 
> _The streams shall run in gladness,_   
>  _The lakes shall shine and burn,_   
>  _All sorrow fail and sadness_   
>  _At the Mountain-king’s return!_

They could not reach the house fast enough. Biliana collapsed in a chair as soon as the door was closed behind them. She weakly tried to wave off Óin, but the **bast'khuzd** would not be discouraged. He sighed deeply as he finished his inspection.

“You’ve done a number on yourself, haven’t you, lass?

Her answer was a harsh cough followed by a violent sneeze. He grinned.

“No surprise, given the river. Just a cold, I think; some rest, some warm fluids, and in a few days she’ll be solid as steel.” he told Thorin, ignoring the now-scowling hobbit.

“Very well,” the king answered. “Let’s get her to bed, then.” he smirked at her sudden violent blush. “Balin, Dwalin, see to your kinswoman.” He looked around as Dwalin hurried to lift the tiny hobbit. “The rest of you…” he trailed off, thinking.

“We know little -- far too little -- about the people here.” he admitted, looking over the Company with his general’s eye. “We will need to correct that. Nori,” the thief gave a salute, “don’t try filching here… we can’t risk any ill will, not now. But I need you to learn all you can, about the Master -- his weaknesses and his tempers. Who is for us here, and who could be against us? Bofur, Kili,” he turned to the merry miner and his youngest nephew, “make sure those who are for us, stay with us, and those that are neutral come to be for us. Glóin, count what coin we have left, and give them all we can spare from supplies: a round or two for the tavern’s full might win us much. But,” he allowed with a wry grin, “I leave much of that to your judgments; you know more of the winning of friends than I.”

Kili smiled, as did Bofur, but there was a serious glint in their eyes. Nori gazed out of the window at the roofline, his nimble fingers working over his belt, divesting himself of his few noisy accoutrements, necessities of living in the Wild; Fili would not be surprised in the morning to find that the dwarf had gone climbing this night. 

Thorin paused as he looked over the remaining dwarves, meeting Fili’s eye in an admission of indecision. Fili, as his current heir, and Balin and Dwalin as advisor and bodyguard (for even if the king dare suggest it, they both knew Dwalin would never let Thorin walk unattended in an unfamiliar settlement of men) had obvious enough roles, but Fili knew he had not yet before considered how best to use the others in politicking, not journeying or fighting. 

A disturbance at one window answered one question quickly enough. Bifur snorted like a boar, storming over to the glass-paned window and shouted in Khuzdul, shaking his fist at the rowdy peepers, scattering them. Thorin smiled grimly.

“Bifur, stay at the house. We do not want the curious to become bolder, or to be unaware of the Master’s servants’ comings and goings, especially as…” he glanced up at the ceiling significantly. Bifur grunted. “You’ll be our warden here.”

The veteran shook his spear in promise.

Bombur too was commissioned to stay, to assist Óin in his care for Biliana and to cook for them -- Thorin would rather be reliant on the Master’s chefs as little as possible. Glóin and Dori were to inspect the marketplace for supplies -- inspect, but not yet purchase. Rushing, all dwarves knew, was the best way to get slag sold as gold. Then he turned his slightly guilty gaze to Ori.

“I don’t know yet what you ought do, Ori.”

The young dwarf only smiled. “Not much I can do, I’m afraid. I’m not charming or cunning, and I doubt Laketown’s got a library or librarian to befriend.” He looked up the stairs, where Dwalin and Balin are yet to emerge. “By your leave, I’ll stay on to assist Óin or Bombur, chart what needs we have, and work on my manuscript while able.”

Thorin had no objection to the plan, nor did Balin when he returned after leaving his kinswoman to her rest. Dwalin only grunted, eyes frequently darting back towards the ceiling.

 

They were mostly left alone the next morning -- though curious men constantly tried to peek under the curtains, no messengers from the Master disturbed their breakfast. The lazy peace and abundant food distracted the dwarrow for a time, but eventually they realized Biliana was absent. Dwalin went up to fetch her, but quickly returned and all but dragged Óin back up the stairs. The remaining Companions looked at each other in alarm; Balin and Thorin quickly followed the warrior and healer to the second floor.

After a long, awkward silence, the Companions began to clean up the meal in a subdued manner. That done, they parted ways, most going back to their sleeping places, but Nori, Bofur and Kili braved the crowds outside to begin their investigations and goodwill tours; Fili smiled despite himself when he heard the cheers. Glancing back up the stairs, he sighed. Taking a seat near the fire, he waited. Alone in his thoughts, he let himself, for a moment, indulge his morose longing for Svitha, and wonder what she would think of recent developments. She would not like the Master, he was sure. But he had no doubt she’d be amused by the mother-bear their hobbit had reduced Dwalin to. He smiled, but then sighed.

Thorin came down then, looking grim.

“Óin says it’s not dangerous,” he said before Fili could even ask, “but she looks -- and clearly feels -- miserable.” His lips twitched upward, Fili raised an eyebrow.

“What’s funny about any of this? Her sickness was caused on our behalf, and besides, I dislike any weakness in this place, **Ruk’dad**.”

Thorin nodded gravely, but soon smiled outright. “She’s not best pleased right now. Óin is brewing her some noxious thing, and she’s complaining already, even coughing every third breath. A bit like your brother would, actually.”

Fili barked a laugh at the comparison. “Not a good patient, then?”

The king grinned. “Oh, I think she’ll prove a _terrible_ patient.”

 

Thorin’s predictions proved accurate. Biliana was as irritable as a wet cat all week: she tried to reject her medicines, snapped at visitors, and generally refused to be entertained. Even so, the Company was concerned enough about their burglar to keep vigil over her, taking turns -- all except Kili, who fled her bedside within the first half hour. Thorin, amazingly, handled her moodiness best, with an unflappable patience that was the wonder of all. Dori was there almost as often -- and normally at the same time -- as Thorin, though he tended to allow their burglar’s attention to remain on their king, his own focus apparently on the copious amount of mending required for the Company’s worn garments. 

When questioned by a beer-braved Bofur, as to his patience and grace in the sick-room, Thorin shrugged, and merely said, “Dís.” Dwalin snorted beer onto the table; Fili nearly choked on his own brew.

Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin were often gone that week, however, as was Nori. The Master constantly invited Thorin to meetings or events, and the sons of Fundin, for obvious if different reasons, would not let him go alone. Fili accompanied him sometimes, when the surety of the line -- and their confidence in bringing both king and heir -- needed to be emphasized. Such times were tedious to the extreme. Not for the first time since reaching his majority, Fili silently wished his uncle would just hurry up and wed already, produce another heir, and save him from the dull burden of statecraft. 

Nori continued his “research” into the people of Laketown. The third day, he hit gold. It appears that one of the captains of the guard (the only competent one, to hear tell of it) was the direct descendant of Girion, the last Lord of Dale. The news intrigued Thorin, who ordered Nori to arrange a conference between the two, with all possible discretion. Nori tried, but the bowman was stern and not typically free in conversation, and Nori -- as one of the famous Company -- was always watched when openly in public. 

In the end, it was Glóin who found the means of bringing him into Thorin’s presence without suspicion, and indeed entirely without intention. Joining Bofur for a pint at the one tavern in the town, the red-headed dwarf happened to be merrily into his cups when Bard and his men came in for a post-duty round. The two fell into easier conversation than would have been assumed: Bard, too, was a family man, a father of a son and two daughters, and the husband of an adored wife. Singing their beloveds’ praises saw one, two, three pints go, and Glóin insisted Bard come back to the house, to see his picture-locket. The guard-captain obliged, smiling indulgently at the dwarf’s boisterous singing. 

Fili was shocked when Nori appeared, in no great humor, to warn them of Glóin’s unwitting success. The young prince shared a look with Thorin as their spy disappeared back into the night once again. The opportunity was too great to ignore, but any appearance of artifice, even false, could kill the discussion before it began. 

Glóin arrived, singing off-key, followed by a stern, tall man. Balin started, taken aback at the captain’s appearance -- Fili would later learn that the bowman was the spitting image of his noble ancestor -- but Thorin greeted him amiably enough.

“Captain Bard; be welcome among us. What brings you here this evening?”

The stern man did not smile. “Master Glóin wishes to show me a treasure, but I was not aware my name was known to you.”

Thorin gestured to a seat. “Indeed, it has been on my mind these last four days; and I have wished, though unsure how to achieve, a meeting with you.” Noting his face, the king assured the guardsman, “Glóin played no contrivance upon you. If you wish merely to speak with him, and not with me, I will depart upstairs.”

The bowman relaxed slightly. Glóin returned then, with the locket, and Bard was much engaged in praising the family to his new friend. A new noise on the stairs distracted Fili: he turned his gaze to see Biliana, leaning heavily on Ori’s arm, carefully maneuver down the flight into the common area. Thorin was on his feet at once, relieving Ori of his precious burden and leading her towards the kitchen. Fili and the others in the front sitting room smiled and greeted her from where they sat, but those in the kitchen greeted her with such cheer and aplomb that Bard looked up from his conversation with Glóin. 

“One of our Company, my kinswoman, has been ill.” Balin explained. “She took cold on our journey down the river. This is the first time we have seen her downstairs since our arrival here.”

Bard nodded. “I had heard a woman was among you. Alfrid -- the small man who attends upon the Master -- spoke of her.” His face darkened, and Fili guessed they would not like the man’s speech. But Bard gave no particulars. He shook his head, recalling himself. “I fear, master dwarves, that I know few of your names. Glóin,” he gave a small, gentle smile, “of course, and I could hardly not know your leader, but some of you I know only by sight, and others not at all.”

Balin apologized, and quickly corrected that. To continue courting his goodwill, they led Bard into the kitchen, to introduce Biliana and the rest.

She sat at one end of the table, still pale but improving in looks and humor, smiling gently as she sipped from a bowl of broth before her. Thorin stood beside her, quick to respond to any indication of need or want from her.

Names again were given, and Biliana smiled upon the bowman.

“I am pleased to meet you, Bard of Laketown. They say,” she gave a significant look to Nori, who had returned unnoticed to the house, “that you are the heir of Girion.”

Bard gave a short bow. “I am of Girion’s line, but since Dale fell there has been little cause to call anyone his ‘heir’.”

“Not yet, perhaps,” she smiled, glancing up at Thorin. He gestured to the seat on her left, which the bowman took, while the king sat at her right.

They spoke for some time, not comfortably and yet not awkwardly. Thorin would turn from time to time to adjust the blanket upon Biliana’s shoulders, or to refill her glass of water. Bard watched these interludes with a knowing smile, and, considering the bowman’s expressions, a welcome suspicion entered Fili’s mind. He turned back to gaze upon his uncle and their halfling, and an impossible hope began to take root in his heart.

Bard and Thorin proceeded slowly. No promises or treaties were made that night, and a few times their hobbit laid her hand on Thorin’s arm to keep the meeting from growing tense, but when Glóin’s snores reminded them of the hour, they parted with firm handshakes and a promise to meet again.

“My new friend Glóin should answer any wonder of my visiting you during the remainder of your stay, however so long that might be,” the guard-captain said with a questioning look. Thorin grimaced.

“In my heart I am eager to be off, but the Master is not yet satisfied, and until Biliana is again hale and whole I will not force the issue.” He sighed, glancing back at where the halfling sat flanked by her kinsmen. Bard nodded. 

“You have given me much to consider; I will come soon enough, I wager, to see your companion and hear more tell of his family; then, no doubt, we will also speak further.”

“No doubt.” Thorin nodded his head as the man departed. A last long look at Biliana, and the king went up the stairs to bed. Fili’s eyes gleamed in the gloom as he watched their burglar follow Thorin with her gaze, and he desperately wished Svitha had observed the evening, to confirm his delighted suspicions. As it were, he would have to make do with the elder, more sensible members of the Company--all of whom, he noted sadly, had made their way to bed while he carefully considered everything he had just seen; Fili resigned himself to wait for the right moment the next day.

He had his chance at breakfast, arriving at that table before most of the others, most importantly Biliana and his uncle and damn nosy brother. Glóin nursed his aching head, but Balin listened to Fili’s vague suppositions with attention, if also with growing amusement and unhelpful non-answers, visibly frustrating the young dwarf. Finally, Glóin snorted, glaring into his empty mug.

“Cottoned on, have you? Eh, well, better late than never…” He cast the mug to the table with a thud, visibly drawing himself together for the day, and squinted at the blond heir. “Well, I don’t think it’s too late to join the pool. I’ll ask Nori if he’s still taking wagers, if yer interested.”

As Fili gaped, Balin laughed, his eyes twinkling. Fili grumbled into his breakfast, determinedly ignoring Bombur’s knowing smile as the rotund cook brought over a second round of good food before the others came downstairs. The young dwarf swore under his breath, glowering at his own mug. He longed for Svitha and her discretion; she would have laughed at him more than the others, but at least she would have done so in private.

*****

As sick and irritable as she was, sitting with Biliana had been vastly preferable to Thorin than indulging the Master. Now that she was growing well, spending hours in her company increased his dread all the more of the Master’s table, and even of meeting with Bard. 

The Master wanted promises, wealth and coin unimaged, though he was careful to make no ultimatums or threaten his largesse. Thorin, in his turn, was wary of promising riches yet unwon, but would remind the Master the opportunities of trade and commerce that would follow the retaking of Erebor, and promise that generosity now meant goodwill upon later success.  
Bard was less greedy, at least on the surface, but more wary and skeptical of their chances. In principle he was for them, but doubt weighed heavy on their discussions.

“That Beast will not sleep forever, and Laketown is the nearest source of the food dragons are said to prefer.” The man said one night, leaning forward in his chair. “All the same, I fear your visit will hurry our fate along.”

Even with his doubts, he brought along perhaps the best piece of intelligence they had yet heard: Girion had sworn until his dying day that he had hit the dragon with a dwarven-forged black arrow, knocking loose a scale upon its breast. 

“One more shot… and he would have brought down the beast.” Bard assured Thorin with an earnest look, surprisingly youthful on that grim face. Whether it be true or no, Thorin could not say, but Girion had been pulled, half dead, from the ruins of a ballista tower, and the weapon and its darts had been well made, even according to the crafts of the dwarves. The possibility hung in the air, a hope Thorin had never even considered.

Even so, Thorin was not sure he liked the grim man. His eyes were piercing, but he kept his own counsels, leaving the exiled king ever unsure whether the guard-captain were friend or foe. And he was wont to cryptic remarks that Thorin was unsure how to interpret. 

One such comment came as he arrived one night, Glóin in tow, speaking again of family. The red-headed dwarf was bemoaning his lack of daughters, when the man, in as serious a voice as Thorin had yet heard him speak, saying,

“You will have as many as me, in the end.”

Glóin did not seem to note the odd statement, but Thorin’s brow furrowed. It was an odd thing to promise, especially to a dwarf whose only child was already approaching adulthood. He truly hoped the rest of Bard’s promises were not as empty as that.

Otherwise, things were coming together nicely. Biliana was recovering well, and Dwalin had begun the process of keeping her with them, even after the successful conclusion of the Quest.

Thorin had at first been surprised, and then chagrined for that surprise, when Balin told him it had been the younger son of Fundin’s idea to extend their kinship to the burglar permanently. The gruff warrior had been as protective as a Heart-Uncle regardless, and Thorin had no objection to Balin formally extending the offer. On the contrary, he was delighted. Balin and Dwalin would be fine uncles, and Biliana, no doubt, would make a devoted niece to his oldest friends. He hoped, furthermore, that she would then remain with them in Erebor; it was becoming difficult to imagine life after his restoration without her presence; it was if he were imagining it without Kili or Balin, or any others of his kin. 

Thorin had not been present when the offer was made: such a moment was highly private, with none outside the proposed family group bearing witness to sure barings of hearts and souls. But he later saw her red eyes and beaming smile, as well as the slight puffiness around Dwalin and Balin’s own eyes, despite their satisfied faces, and knew the offer had been accepted. The announcement was made later that night, at dinner -- the first that Biliana had been well enough to attend with the Company. Thorin had declined (or, rather, Balin had politely declined on his behalf) the Master’s invitation that night: the Company was together again, and Thorin’s place was with them.

Biliana was greeted with cheers as she took her seat, and the good news was celebrated with roars of approval. Glóin offered three toasts for each of the Fundins, and Bofur ended up standing on his chair, singing old songs traditionally sung in celebration of a safe birth. Through it all, Biliana leaned against the solid form of her new younger uncle, a soft smile on her face. Her gaze met Thorin’s, and he held her eyes until she blushed and looked away.

The night came to a close late, and yet too soon, when Fili, Kili, and Ori began to compete in issuing forth loud winds. Biliana’s nose wrinkled, but she made no objection as the smell grew and the sounds increased. Finally, Glóin took matters into her own hands, releasing a flatulence that stunned the young dwarves into awed silence. They all laughed, but Balin then took Biliana by the hand to lead her back to bed, “needing her rest after such nonsense.”

Being dwarf-kin suited Biliana, Thorin thought. Balin had begun her Khuzdul lessons that next day, keeping them short, as she still tired easily, but she made quick progress nonetheless. Balin teased she might master the tongue before they reached the Mountain. 

A week after that first night she came down, Biliana was well enough to accompany her uncles into the town. If the dwarrow-men had proved popular in the settlement, their hobbit quickly became beloved. She took to the children, often as tall as she, and they to her. Biliana was wont to pause to give aid any mother, aunt, or elder, and had no difficulty sharing her knowledge on common household ailments and troubles. She soon became adored for her practical lore, and the womenfolk of Laketown found reasons to call upon the young hobbit at her temporary residence.

The kitchen of the Master’s house became a hub for the homely arts, and Biliana hosted women and children graciously and without rancor. Initially intimidated by the craggy-faced Bifur, the children soon saw past the gruff dwarf’s silence and axe-head when he produced wondrous trinkets of play, the like of which had not been seen in the region since the burning of Dale’s toy-market. To the children of Laketown, indeed, it became a fierce battle between partisans of Biliana and Bifur, each side judging their idol the wonder of the age, and more than one laughing mother spoke of interrupting quite heated debates, and even a few brawling squabbles.

Evening and morning, however, Bifur maintained his vigil over Biliana and the house. More than one extra-curious passerby, seeking to spy upon the dwarven company, found themselves none-too-gently reminded that dwarrow-folk are an intensely private and warlike race. Bifur was cautious and left no lasting damage to those he encouraged to continue along the street, and those who dawdled along were not keen to admit that they had been shown the error of their ways by a male half their size and beloved by their children.

Thorin, unfortunately, mostly heard of such doings after the fact, being unable except on the most blessed days to linger in the kitchen, listening to Biliana’s voice rise and fall with feeling as she shared stories of past days with the enthralled children of Laketown. Durin’s Day was approaching, and supplies and promises still needed to be secured. On that front, his most trusted advisors were cautiously sure of success, but they were wary about the long-term effects of Laketown’s generosity. 

“This is not a town of wealth,” Dwalin grunted. “Nor do they have the quality of weaponry we would have required, had the lass not managed to recover our own. Only fish, and beer, and not very good beer at that.”

“The townsfolk are one bad season away from true hardship,” Bofur murmured. “And what they have, the Master takes more than his due. Tis not like the fat man himself has much, but he takes and takes.”

“There is little we can do to change that now,” Balin admitted. “But once we have the Mountain again…” Silence lingered in the air for a time, before Glóin shifted the conversation.

“On the plus side, the people love us. Especially our burglar.”

“She is doing quite well,” Balin smiled to himself. “Not only is her health restored, but she is a welcome addition to our presence in town,” he continued, unknowingly echoing Thorin’s own thoughts on the subject.

“Aye,” Glóin hummed. “And did you know, I overheard two bairns just this morning, arguing over whether she was a Lady or a Queen? Seems she reminds them of the noble dams of their bedside tales.”

Thorin cut his eyes to the dwarrow, calmly smoking his pipe near the fire. Glóin met the King’s gaze, his face pleasantly unassuming, though his eyes held a wicked twinkle. Before he could say anything, Balin continued.

“She is a generous soul,” he said blithely. “Much like the great Ladies of old. She shares the toils with the women and aids them in their work. She is an honor to the Line of Fundin.”

Had Thorin not known Balin so well, he would have thought the white-bearded adviser was supporting Glóin’s insinuation. “I hear Bofur’s name on a lot of lips.” With a last narrowed glance at Glóin, he turned to Nori. “Tell me more.”

“Bofur is a friendly drunk,” Nori explained with a quiet chuckle, “and might be the best loved here had the lass not gotten back on her feet.” The dwarf emerged from the shadows, his face creased with concern as he changed subjects. “The Master of Laketown is a known fool, but only those who agree with him have the opportunity to thrive -- or near enough, best that can be done in this town. There is much here that is unjust.” At Thorin’s steady gaze, he continued. “He has stockpiled weapons in an unused stable behind the Hall. They are guarded more intensely since our arrival; it seems that he fears that we will take his ‘good weaponry’ without pay.”

“Tis not worth the possible consequences to do so,” Balin cautioned, and Nori snorted outright.

“Tis not worth the thieving, even for scrap metal,” he retorted. “Ancient armor, rusted through; blades that cannot hold an edge; even the hafts are no more than kindling. I’ve seen mountain orcs better equipped.”

“And the people of Laketown?” Thorin pressed. “Are they for us, or against us?”

“Too poor to have much choice in the matter,” Nori grunted. “They won’t rise unless the Master is toppled, and we give them hope that a better future is forthcoming, should they not be eaten by the Beast.”

Thorin did not fully appreciate Nori’s pessimism, but he could understand it. Every minute in the Master’s company made him more likely to share it, or even, in his blackest moments, to wish for it, if the loss could be confined to the fat tyrant and his sycophants. 

“Bard is a key ally for us in this matter,” Balin mused, and Dwalin looked up sharply at his brother’s next words. “He is a man of character, and much loved in this town. He stands behind the Master because that is his duty, but he is the true leader here.”

“Bard seems honest, but so do many men before they have rank or gold,” Nori warned. “Many a man intends to be kind and benevolent before he strikes a vein of mithril, but fails to follow through after the fact.”

A sharp knock at the door disturbed them; Bifur rose to respond to the intrusion, and Bard was welcomed into the front room, for once accompanied by several others.

“The Master has bid me to give you a message, that he agrees to your terms and would be delighted to have your presence at a Feast a week from tomorrow, to ‘wish you well before you depart to reclaim your inheritance’.” Had the guards-captain been any less grim, he might have rolled his eyes as Kili often did.

“To that end, he sent a gift,” gesturing behind him, his fellows brought forth heavy rolls of well-dyed wool. “It is said a tailor is among you; seamstresses shall be sent here tomorrow to assist him, at the Master’s expense.”

“I am sure Dori will appreciate their aid,” Balin admitted, smiling at the men. “Might there be anything else of import to be known?” As he spoke, Glóin and Dwalin began carrying away the bolts of cloth, and Nori departed to fetch Dori.

Bard blinked slowly, taking in the industrious initial preparations of the dwarrow. “You have friends in Laketown,” he mused. “Many would like to be remembered to you in your prosperity.”

“And we shall not forget our friends,” Thorin answered. Bard fixed him with a long look, nodded once, and departed.

Even by dwarven standards, Dori achieved a wonder in the week that followed. Suitable garments were crafted for each member of the Company, in Laketown fashions, but with embroidery that proclaimed their dwarven origin. Biliana assisted with the decoration, and was the only hand that sewed the thick, intricate patterns that framed Thorin’s collar and wrists. He tried not to be over-pleased by the fact, but he found himself tracing the patterns with his fingers throughout the night. 

They prepared themselves carefully the night of the feast. Hair and beards were washed and combed until they shone, and the scraggy ends beyond repair -- reminders of their hard journey -- were snipped off. Leather and weapons were cleaned and polished to gleam against their new clothes. Balin braided Biliana’s hair with especial care, allowing some of her red-brown curls to remain loose upon her shoulders, but much up in a elegant pile on the top of her head, one braid crossing her forehead like a tiara.

The procession to the feast was an overwrought thing, in Thorin’s opinion. The pennants strung in the streets were patched, and though the villagers were delighted to see their friends so finely attired, he was keenly aware that the largesse that gave rise to those garments came from the sweat and toil of these honest workers. Thorin was cautious to keep his bearing appropriately kingly -- he noted Fili emulating his own posture with the soft bloom of pride -- but a smile crept onto his visage as he watched Kili catch a bouquet of daisies and proceed to hand them one by one to the mothers along their route.

The Master awaited them on the steps of the town hall, flanked by the most important men of the town. His lackey was behind him, half-hidden in the shadow of the doors, but with a glint in his beady eyes as he peered down at the Company. 

“Welcome!” the Master boomed, his hands flung wide. Thorin noticed a different color on the once-rich furs of his collar, and after a moment, recognized it as gravy. “We are delighted to serve you this evening!”

A sharp gesture and sharper hissed word from the oily Alfrid sent a pair of comparatively well-dressed guardsmen scurrying to fetch an ornate chest, carrying it to its place beside the Master.

Thorin gave a short, polite bow. “As we are, to be so graciously welcomed into your society.”

“To mark this stupendous occasion, I have searched high and low for items of use to you in your noble quest.” With another wave of his arm that almost struck one of the guardsmen, he opened the chest, displaying a wealth of fabric inside, well-made cloaks lined with heavy furs, if Thorin’s eye was accurate. Dori looked begrudgingly impressed. “The mountain will no doubt be cold, and we would not wish to see our new friends freeze before reclaiming their inheritance!” With a flourish, he drew out one of the cloaks for display.

“It is obvious,” Thorin began in answer, “that the skill of Men of the North was not lost with the ruin of Dale. I am honored to receive such craft work.” He did not add that he feared the Master’s fat fingers would stain the fabric and leave a stink that even the talented Dori would be unable to remove.

The Master basked in the moment, and gestured once more. A straight-backed young woman came out, carrying a rich blue garment in her arms. “And of course, we have not forgotten the kindness of the lady in your midst!”

The woman halted a few feet from the Master, just out of arm’s-reach, and held up a fine lady’s coat for inspection. Thorin found that he appreciated the woman’s contribution most of all in the pageantry of gift-giving, even more that she had the presence of mind to keep something intended for Biliana out of the Master’s hands.

“Sigrid is young, but already among our finest seamstresses, and we wanted your lady to have something to remember her time among us,” the Master preened. “But enough of all that! Dinner awaits!”

He spun on a heel, his garments dragging on the ground behind him, and strolled into the hall. Checking his scowl, Thorin followed after with a sure and stately step.

Alfrid bowed greasily to Biliana and offered her his arm, but Dwalin stepped between them with a dark scowl and escorted Biliana off. Before Thorin could express his sudden fury at the worm’s audacity, Dori stepped in to distract the man, asking where he might store the fine garments for the evening of merriment. Alfrid was unprepared for the dwarf’s sheer forthright fussiness, and was occupied for some time directing the tailor to the appropriate people and places.

Before dinner was served, the dwarrow were escorted to their seats at the high table and the Master gave another speech, expressing grandiose expectations of the dwarves’ success, and the inevitable rivers of gold that would come from the Mountain. His speech, as always, was verbose and over-long, and Thorin saw relief in more than just dwarven eyes when the Master finally called for the first course to be served.

Unlike their first night, the Company was not able to gracefully depart after the meal finished. Rather, the tables were taken away with a great deal of haste and noise, and the guests began to mingle, though many made frequent forays to the large tapped keg in the back corner.

A small instrumental ensemble took their seats on the dais that had held the high table, and despite their lack of variety in the music, it wasn’t altogether terrible. Some of the coupled men and women danced. Most of the guests, however, continued to mull about and chatter together. Thorin smiled as he saw Biliana speaking with the seamstress who made her coat, praising the fine needlework.

The hours crawled by, until even Biliana’s smile became a bit forced. Fili seemed to be determined to wring out the most good from this opportunity, and sat deep in sober conversation with a handful of the more honorable merchants of Laketown. Though proud of his nephew’s initiative, he knew his heir well enough to know the lad took no pleasure in the task. Altogether, Thorin itched to depart, but the Master gave no sign of tiring. 

A whoop from the back drew the attention of no few guests, and Bofur sat proudly at a table near the keg, a drunken lackey fallen off the bench beside him. “I did warn you!” he laughed merrily, his eyes twinkling as other guests joined in the laughter, helping the man up. “None can drink against a dwarf! Even a poncey elf would lose his wits before one of Mahal’s children!”

“Your men are most high-spirited,” Alfrid observed as he approached where Thorin stood with Dwalin and Biliana, and it took all Thorin had to not drive his fist into the man’s face for being so close. “I do wonder, what does your lady make of such behavior?”

Biliana’s face was calmly polite. “I am quite used to the exuberance of my companions, sir. And merriment on so fine a night is no bad thing.”

“Indeed,” he agreed with a sly look on his face. “It is a fine night, and it would be a shame if we did not all enjoy it.” Dwalin stiffened, and Thorin’s ears began to roar. The man’s tone set his ever nerve on edge. 

“The evening has been quite a success,” Biliana demurred, taking half a step closer to Dwalin. Thorin’s hand went to Deathless’ hilt. “I expect you had much to do with arranging such an excellent event, and I thank you.”

Alfrid preened, and bowed, but before he could reply to her compliment, Bard approached, slipping between Alfrid and the dwarrow with seemingly serendipitous obliviousness.

Thorin almost sighed aloud in relief at the guard-captain’s appearance, but Alfrid tried to shoo him away.

“This is no time for prophecies of floods or poison fish, Bowman!” he hissed, spittle flying from thick lips.

“No, it is not.” said the grim man. “And I did not come to speak any.” He turned his gaze to the dwarven king, dismissing the little **kakhuf inbarathrag** entirely. “I wish you good fortune and good health, Thorin son of Thrain son of Thrór -- for all our sakes.”

“As do we all,” Alfrid interjected. “Bard, don’t--”

“The Master requires your attendance,” Bard said blandly, and with a dark look at the captain and an oily compliment to the health of the hobbit lady, the lackey retreated.

“You are a good man,” Dwalin said lowly, cautious to ensure his voice did not carry.

“Not a very good one, I’m afraid.” Bard did, however, incline his head to accept the dwarrow’s praise. “Master Dwalin, I was hoping I might speak with you.”

Dwalin’s brows crept upward, though his face remained stoic. “About what, lad?”

Bard gave no indication of hearing the dwarf’s diminutive term; or if he did, he dismissed it. “You have seen battle, yes?”

“Aye.” The dwarf narrowed his eyes at the captain. “Tis not a glorious thing, though, and I do not believe you foolish enough to think so.”

“Certainly not,” Bard agreed. “But you have trained men, and I have seen you watching our drilling. What do you see?”

Dwalin took a moment to size up the man once more, sharp eyes taking in the man’s earnest concern for his people. He launched into a flurry of war-terms that Bard seemed to only vaguely understand, but Thorin stopped following the conversation when he noticed Biliana looked a little peaked. He closed the remaining distance between them swiftly.

“How are you?” Thorin murmured to Biliana, lips next to her ear. Óin may have given her a clean bill of health, but she had been ill for so long, and the night was taxing even at full health. As if to confirm his anxieties, she shuddered, but answered happily enough.

“Well, thank you.” Her voice was low and almost breathy. “Though I am glad Sting is on my hip.” She glanced at Alfrid, who had gone on to leer at another woman.

“Sting?” Thorin glanced down at the little blade on her shapely hip. He did not know she had named her weapon.

She blushed, hand brushing the hilt. “I well… I named my sword, back during the fight with the spiders.I thought of myself as a stinging fly, then, and thought Sting a fine name for my small sword.”

“Sting…” he said the name slowly, tasting it on his lips. Then he smiled. “Agreed; it is a good name for the sword.”

Thorin looked away from her pinking face, towards the musicians playing a tune reminiscent of a dwarven dance. Suddenly, a wild idea flitted across Thorin’s mind. He was reasonably sure Biliana would be acquiescent, and it would make the night a far more pleasant one to remember.

“Miss Baggins, could I have this dance? I believe Balin and my nephew taught you the steps?”

She blinked up at him, but her blooming smile was answer enough. She took his offered hand, and they moved towards the other couples, taking their places with grace.

Most eyes, Thorin knew, were upon them, but Biliana’s smile did not waver, nor did her cheeks fill again with blush. The set began without incident, and for a few moments Thorin simple enjoyed the sensation of dancing with an agreeable partner. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fili take in arm an elderly matron, leading her to the line. His brother was close behind, with a giggling girl-child barely old enough to leave the nursery. Biliana turned her face to hide a laugh. Thorin didn’t bother to conceal the twinkle in his eye.

After two sets, Thorin escorted Biliana back away from the dancers, but his youngest nephew quickly stole her away. Nori soon cut in, twirling their hobbit away from the pouting prince, only for Bofur to steal her in turn. Kili leapt back into the fray, the music now embellished with Biliana’s laughter, as the cycle continued four or five rounds, until Kili ended triumphant and Nori and Bofur finished the set together.

Biliana retreated back to Thorin’s side after their nonsense, grinning up at him and resting against his arm. He smiled down at her in return, his eyes twinkling again when her saw her attempt to smother a yawn.

“Thank you,” she said, “for the dance. I can’t recall ever having a better partner.”

He found himself standing a hair taller, pleased beyond measure at the compliment. He decided to pay it in turn.

“Nor I,” he said, delighting in her renewed blush, in the slight parting of her lips. Suddenly, the warmth of the room struck him.

“Shall I fetch us some refreshment, after our exertions?” he asked, inwardly wincing at his phrasing. But she nodded, and he moved as swiftly as was seemly towards the servers and the wine.

He returned shortly, two glasses of ruby liquid in hand. Biliana was smiling back towards the dancefloor, where a laughing Fili had strong-armed a protesting Kili into dancing a reel.

“My lady,” Thorin said with a bow, gaining her attention and offering the drink, which she took with teasing gravity. Her pleasing face remained cheerful and fixed on his, and they enjoyed together a quiet moment, the bustle of the gathering flowing unnoticed around them.

When Kili interrupted them, demanding another dance, Biliana pleaded his forgiveness, claiming she was too tired for another set. And indeed, Thorin noted, she was hard-pressed to stop her eyelids drooping or smother her yawns. He cast his gaze around the hall; many were beginning to fade. Nori was playing dice with those men closest to the Master, and, Thorin suspected, taking them for all they were worth in their drunken stupors.

Balin approached the King, and with a subtle gesture, indicated the Master of Laketown slouching in his chair, Alfrid lurking behind, the pair of them cackling together about something. At a sign from Thorin, the dwarves began to disengage, Dori bustling Biliana over towards their coats,Glóin following behind after a look from Thorin. The dwarf king took Balin and Fili to pay his final respects.

They approached the dais unnoted, if the conversation’s continuance was any indication. The Master leveled his hand at a height similar to a dwarf’s. “She would be about the right height for pleasuring a man,” he slurred, a little too loudly.

“A convenient height for that and more,” Alfrid agreed, and dissolved into silly little chuckles. The dwarrow-men bristled against the crudity. 

“By your leave, **Iruk’adad** ,” Fili gritted out in low Khuzdul, “And I will bring an end to their wagging tongues.” 

He was tempted to say yes, but Balin cleared his throat. Thorin knew by the steely glint of his old friend’s gaze that had the dwarves not needed the goodwill of those perverts -- and oh did that humiliation burn-- that Balin would have challenged the men to **akrâg’aktidmês** that night, and Balin’s **thatrzagr** would have taken restitution for the insinuation in blood.

“Not yet,” the dwarf king growled. “Not yet.” _But soon_ , he vowed to himself. 

The Master noticed them then, and Thorin took a small amount of satisfaction in the alarm in his eyes. 

“We take our leave,” Thorin said, perhaps harsher than he ought. “The night grows long, and we have another journey to begin on the morrow.”

“Yes, yes! Of course, of course,” the Master effused, spilling the wine in his hand as he gesticulated. “We shall see you off in the morning. Rest well, Master Dwarves, and know Laketown’s goodwill goes with you!”

Their departure from that point was swift and succinct. Dori hoisted the trunk of cloaks to one shoulder as Ori complimented Biliana in her new coat and took her by the elbow, and the others closed ranks around their hobbit, shielding her from the drunken gaze of the Laketown residents.

They left the next morning. The Master ensured it was another spectacle, with a foolish amount of pomp and circumstance, but Thorin could not wholly hide the grin that threatened to split his features. One more boat ride, and he would be on his land. He was almost home.

###### 

_Translations:_  
 **Akrâg’aktidmês** \-- judging the truth of honor (literal); a Dwarven custom to defend one’s or kin’s honor  
 **Bast'khuzd** \-- healer  
 **Kakhuf inbarathrag** \-- goat-excrement   
**Ruk’dad** \-- uncle (informal, affectionate)  
 **Iruk’adad** \-- uncle (formal)  
 **Thatrzagr** \-- broad and straight sword with a star-shaped three-pointed expansion at the sword’s tip


	11. Homecoming

Authors’ Note: Welcome back! We hope that you enjoy our romp through Tolkien’s world. If you recognize it, it’s probably from Tolkien or Peter Jackson. If it’s an non-Tolkienian idea you’ve seen before in fanfiction, feel free to assume it’s a (most likely) subconscious allusion/tribute to the original author. Happy reading! Elle and Rhi

###### 

# Homecoming

The dove-grey light of foredawn found the house of the dwarves abustle with activity. Balin spent most of the morning standing with Dwalin and Thorin, though he checked in on his kinswoman frequently; he worried a bit, that she would feel forgotten by the Fundins in the bustle, but it appeared that she had found ways to keep herself both busy and useful. Billa initially aided Dori in distributing and reorganization of the dry goods for their packs before finding herself working beside Bombur as he ensured the proper preparation of their foodstuffs. Not long before they were due to depart with their escort -- Alfrid lurked on the doorstep, having been greeted by a gruff Bifur, who firmly conveyed that the oily little man was to remain outside -- Balin nodded to Dwalin, and his younger brother pulled Billa aside.

“This last stretch is like to be the worst of it, lass,” Dwalin said, his eyes watching the bustle of their fellow dwarves, lingering on Thorin and his heirs.

Billa followed his gaze for a moment, then nodded. “I suppose not all homecomings can be as simple as unlocking the front door and settling into your favorite chair,” she agreed.

Balin frowned. “The dragon will not have left Erebor in particularly good shape, even if it no longer draws breath,” he warned. “There will be much rebuilding to do, before we can really call it home.”

Billa smiled. “Home-making is something with which I am familiar,” she said, and settled a warm hand on Balin’s arm, easing a tension Balin had not realized he carried. “I am looking forward to seeing the lot of you settled in.”

Dwalin smiled. “Soon as we are in Erebor proper, lass, and we’ve the time, we’ll arrange for the formal ceremony. Until then, we’ve got you this.” He proffered something small, a fine little   
metal bead, inscribed in dwarven runes.

“What is it?” Billa asked, examining the delicate work.

“A symbol of the House of Fundin,” Balin beamed, patting her hand. “Dwalin made it while he was in the forges. It’s a symbol of kinship, in the strictest sense--” he was cut off, as Billa threw her arms around him, squeezing him tightly before wrapping her arms as far around Dwalin as she could, asking him to braid the bead into her hair.

“You’ll need to think about who you want to chose your **Kharmel** , your True Name,” Dwalin said fondly, his thick fingers deft as he wove a plait behind her ear, the silver bead glimmering in the light.

“I can’t think of anyone better than Balin,” she said immediately, and as Balin felt his chest swell with pride, Dwalin chuckled outright.

“Neither can I,” he agreed. “Balin named me.”

Balin beamed at the both of them, his eyes twinkling behind his beard. “I will give your name a great deal of thought,” he promised.

Thorin called for the Fundin brothers then, and with a last smile amongst themselves, the trio took their places for the procession to the docks.

Balin happily ignored Alfrid’s babble of words throughout the short walk to the barges provided for the dwarrowfolk, and paid scarcely more attention to the Master’s speeches once they arrived. After so many weeks in their company, he knew well enough what they would say, and how he ought to respond, if required. His attention instead remained on Biliana, whose face paled steadily as they approached the open waters of the Long Lake. Her pallid face took on a touch of green when she saw the shallow fishing vessels weighed down with their provisions, and her lips had constricted to a tight white line before Dwalin helped her step into their transport. Struck again by the courage -- past and present -- of their clearly terrified hobbit, Balin left his place beside Thorin as the bargemen pushed off, coming to sit next to his new niece.

The Lake in the early morn was mirror-smooth, but as the dwarves set off, the disturbance from their boat caught the beams of the rising sun, turning dark water into ripples of gold. Despite the favorable conditions, Billa was unable to fully calm her shaking, and pressed closer to Balin’s side; he wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder. He bade her close her eyes, and he sang lowly to her a lullaby he remembered from his own childhood. In time her deep breaths and his efforts lulled her to sleep, though her brow remained furrowed as if her dreams were troubled. As Balin held their sleeping hobbit, he turned his attention to each of the Company in turn, musing quietly that some were clearly more comfortable than others. Thorin, for his part, stood broodingly in the prow of the lead boat, staring at his approaching Mountain. Fili settled behind him, looking a touch grey from the slow rocking of the boat. Kili remained in semi-constant motion, sometimes sitting, sometimes jumping up (always giving a bashful smile in answer to the bargemen’s glares) sometimes opening his mouth to pepper his uncle with questions, always thinking the better of it, and sitting down again with a sigh. Behind their king and his nephews, Dwalin stood with arms crossed, glaring at the men at the oars.

Biliana and Balin sat at the middle of the boat, with Glóin and Óin behind them, neither of whom seemed even to notice the passage of time, so engrossed each was in his own thoughts. After them came the Ri brothers, Dori pointing out recognized landmarks to Ori while Nori stood silent beside them. Last came the Ur relations, talking lowly amongst themselves.

Balin sighed as the shores slipped by, lost in his thoughts. Beside him, Billa stirred, waking from her sleep. Her gaze turned to the land before them Though her hands flew to her mouth, she could not swallow her soft cry.

“What is it, lass?” Balin turned sharply, catching sight of what had her so transfixed. “Ah.” The dwarf stood still for a long moment, his face grim. “Tis the Desolation of Smaug.

“The hills and slopes around Erebor were once green, and filled with trees,” he told her, gazing at the stunted trees reaching spindly arms to the grey sky. “Twas a beautiful place.”

“I can tell,” Billa murmured softly as their boat approached the shore at the foot of the Mountain. “Birches, and pines, yes?” Balin nodded solemnly, and the hobbit gripped the side of the boat tightly as she watched the shore draw close. “They’re still trying to grow, poor things.”

“Tis such a shame,” Balin said. “I wish you had been able to see it as it once was. Trees with trunks so wide around that ten dwarves together could not reach round.” He smiled, his face creasing and eyes going misty. “Flowers blooming everywhere in the spring, and herbs coming through in the summer. I used to bring Himla a bouquet every eventide.”

“‘Bout buried her in flowers, he did,” Dwalin added from where he stood, a smile curving his craggy face. “She pressed every one.”

Billa smiled softly, and settled her hand on the arm of the white-haired dwarf; the trio stood quietly for a moment, lost in thought “There is still life here.” Billa broke the silence with a determined little nod. “When the blight of the dragon is gone, this place will thrive again.”

Balin’s brows lifted, feeling a faint gleam of hope lift is face. “You think so?”

Billa gazed at the barrenness again, looking not at its desolate state but past it towards the future. “I know so.” With a twinkle in her eye, she nudged Balin. “I am a hobbit, after all.”

It roused a chuckle from Balin, and as he opened his mouth to answer, the shallow draught of their barge rasped over a sandbar, stealing his focus.

The boats beached upon the far shore. Man and dwarf alike paused, seized with a sudden mix of fear and solemnity. Even little Biliana remained still and quiet upon the barge, perceiving the gravity of the moment. 

Thorin shook himself and cleared his throat. He stepped suredly off the vessel and on to the   
rocky beach, his red cloak lifting in the wind behind him. His subjects scrambled to follow, but the boatmen remained on board their barges, handing over their cargo without speaking.

Poor Billa could not fully conceal her relief upon stepping back onto solid ground. Dwalin thumped her shoulder once in solidarity before taking his place half a pace behind Thorin, fingers twitching towards his axes as he watched their surroundings warily. The others of their Company assisted in the offloading of their supplies, and soon the work was done.

The bargemen did not linger -- faith in their old songs faded under the shadow of the Lonely Mountain. Almost as soon as the last pack had been handed over, they pushed off, rowing back towards Laketown and the safety isolation promised.

“Come along,” Thorin ordered, beginning the trek along the old land path to meet the men who journeyed the long way round, bringing their ponies along the shore.

Once they arrived, Balin stood with Thorin as the King formally thanked the men. Their leader, a youth of maybe twenty years, lean and spare-framed, bowed from horseback.

“Twas an honor,” he said proudly, though his voice trembled a little, and Balin thought he heard a bit of a squeak. The young man cleared his throat before continuing. “We look forward to the reclaiming of the Mountain,” he said.

Thorin’s eyes narrowed, and Balin spoke for him. “As do we, lad,” he smiled kindly, and Thorin nodded stiffly, a clear dismissal.

The tension of the moment did not seem to bother the men, and they rode away in high spirits, as though a great weight had been lifted from their shoulders by the mere presence of the dwarves on the least slope of the Mountain.

Thorin rolled his shoulders. “Let us make the best use of the daylight,” the king ground out, turning to stalk toward the ponies. Balin brushed off the brusqueness; the King would be under the most stress of them all, with the Mountain so close, and the dragon’s dark influence tainting it still.

The Company fell into their old riding patterns from before Rivendell, Thorin riding behind Dwalin, flanked by Balin. Behind the trio, Fili rode with uncharacteristic quietness; glancing back often. Balin noticed more than once the way that Fili’s eyes rarely strayed from the Mountain above. Even Kili seemed somber, riding beside his brother in quiet solemnitude.

Behind them, Óin rode hunched over on his pony; Billa and Glóin just after him, Glóin offering sparse commentary on the conversation between the remaining dwarves. Billa seemed quiet to Balin, her brow creasing in concern as she observed the sons of the Line of Durin, though she seemed equally interested in the animated discussion.

“The Master is obviously corrupt,” Bofur announced to the grunted assent of the others. “He’s no better than a greedy, thieving **Durthurathkh**!”

“Be that as it may, keep that word out of your mouth,” Dori retorted testily. “You’ll bring ill luck down upon us, like as not.”

Bofur snorted at that, but Bombur’s quiet rumble kept him from arguing.

Dori sighed fussily. “You are not wrong,” he reiterated. “What on Mahal’s good stone are we going to do about him?”

Bifur grunted a short phrase. “ **Adruf zelaf-hû**.”

“Tis not a bad idea,” Nori replied, earning himself a snort from Glóin and an aghast expression from Dori. “Ending him.” he explained to Biliana, leaving out the fully violence of Bifur’s suggestion.

“And who’s to say that rat Alfrid won’t take his place?” Glóin wanted to know. “Be a shame to off the lazy, complacent evil and put that slimy **kakhuf inbarathrag** in his place.”

Balin frowned at the lot of them, and his former student responded to the silent rebuke before the others. “What of the people?” Ori asked plaintively. “They are one thin season away from starvation!”

“Can’t trust the Master to do right by ‘em,” Nori agreed. “I saw them hiding away what they could, but his spies are everywhere.”

“Trade might go a long way to helping them get back on their feet,” Bofur agreed.

“But what’s to stop him taking that?” Nori argued.

“ **Adjân** ,” Bifur offered darkly.

Ori smiled brightly at the scarred warrior. “Hope,” he repeated. “They have hope now, that we have come to reclaim the Mountain.”

Bofur looked remorseful, but spoke up anyway. “He meant it the other way, lad,” he said heavily. “They’re too hopeful now, too expectant that we’re going to be fixing everything.”

Dori snorted. “Not even Durin Himself would stir to aid those who’d not help themselves.”

“But can we?” Ori implored. “Trade agreements of old were quite explicit that the wealth would go to the good of the town--”

“Comes back to the Master and his inability to care for any but his ownself,” Glóin grunted. “The lot of them are fools if they are not ready to put in the sweat of their own backs to deposing that man.”

“Not to say it shouldn’t be done,” Nori said, his voice strangely thoughtful, and Balin glanced back again at the tone in the thief’s voice. Nori’s grey eyes challenged Balin’s mild disapproval for a moment, and Balin thought the dwarf might elaborate on his thought, but Kili’s yelp of dismay drew all attention.

The Company crested the ridge as the sinking sun glowed red and angry in the west, casting bloody light over their the first view of the vast ruins of Dale.

The marks of the dragon were many in the valley; dragon-fire had all but melted what had been the tallest tower of Dale, from which Girion had mounted his assault of the dragon. Scorch marks remained burned into the stone buildings, marking where wooden structures once stood, and great gouges were torn out of the barren landscape.

Billa caught a soft sob, pressing her hand over her mouth, and Dori nudged his pony closer. “Dale,” he told her, looking impossibly sad. “A merry town, back then.”

“Why would the dragon attack this town?” Billa asked softly. “There could have been no reason to target Dale.”

“A dragon needs no reason to destroy,” Balin answered solemnly. “He ravaged Dale simply because it was there.”

“We camp above Dale tonight,” Thorin decreed, cutting through the morose conversation and starting off again, glancing back only to see if Billa and his nephews followed.

Balin caught a glimpse of Dwalin frowning, and cleared his throat. “Let’s keep moving.” His gaze was heavy as it caught on the white scars torn into the grey stone by the fierce claws of the dragon. “We’ve a fair piece to go.” The dwarven Company skirted the ruins; Dwalin called up Nori, and after a few terse words, the thief dismounted and disappeared into the brush.

The moon was rising above them as they reached a clearing, and Dwalin called a halt for the evening. Balin thought he saw the king scowl at Dwalin, but it must have been a trick of the light, for Thorin was the first to dismount. Nori reappeared shortly, carrying half a dozen hares on a line.

The brilliant light of the moon was more than enough by which to set up camp, and the work was done quickly, Bombur roasting Nori’s prizes before too much time had passed.

Balin thanked Billa for bringing his meal, smiling more broadly when she settled beside him, between himself and Thorin. “Are you doing all right?” he whispered conspiratorially. “Tis been a harder day than anticipated.”

She gave him a weary smile. “I am doing as well as can be,” she replied, just as quietly. “There is a lot of pain here; much needs a healing touch.”

On her other side, Thorin’s eyes narrowed in the firelight. “Biliana,” he said politely. “How are you faring? You are not feeling any ill effects from your malady?”

Billa flushed, shifting in her seat to angle herself more toward Thorin. “Oh, no, none at all! I was very well cared for in Laketown; I don’t believe I will see any lasting effects from it.”

“Excellent,” Thorin said, and gazed out at the shapes of Dale in the moonlight. “This was once a thriving center of trade,” he remarked softly. “It is such a shame that all that is left is ruined husks.”

Billa’s eyes were focused upon Thorin. “What was it like?” she asked. “I have been to Hobbit market days, and some few in the nearby towns of Men, but none in so grand a town as this.”

Thorin smiled softly. “I recall the walls and forges more than the markets,” he confessed, chuckling a bit. “Twas rare that I was called forth from the Mountain, and when I did, it was to aid in forgework or patrolling. It was important to my father and my grandfather that the people of Dale knew and respected the Line of Durin.”

“That is not to say that you did not get into trouble,” Balin said with a fond smile. Billa settled back, looking between the two dwarves. “Was it not you and Dwalin who once spent an entire day dodging guards and drawing them into fruitless pursuits?”

“Did you really, **Ruk’dad**?” Kili asked, his face alight with mischief. “And you told Fili and me that princes ought to _behave_!”

Thorin outright laughed at that, dispelling the last of the tension Balin noticed in his face.

“However did you get away with it?” Fili wanted to know. “ **Amad** always told us that **Sigun’adad** was rather strict, and his father even more so.”

The king sat back, his empty plate at his side, considering his memory. “I believe we said that we were testing their response time to disturbances,” he said thoughtfully. “Something about gathering information in order to make recommendations.”

“Aye,” Dwalin put in, not quite glaring as he shifted. “It was a grand thought -- until Balin made us actually compile it into a sensible report!”

Fili laughed, throwing back his head; Balin was relieved to see the heir’s mood lightened. He sometimes worried that Fili took too much on his young shoulders, and lamented once more that the lad’s father had died so young; Fidûn had been an exceptional dwarf, and had eased the load of care the entire royal family bore so heavily.

“I remember some of the markets,” Bofur said thoughtfully. “Bifur used to take us down into Dale on market-days.”

“ **Id-manaru tesâk** ,” Bifur said, almost gently. The scarred warrior’s face had softened, and he gazed at his cousins fondly.

“That’s right!” Dori exclaimed. “Bifur sold many toys down at the market, back then. I had almost forgotten, old friend.” With a fond smile, he patted the shoulder of the warrior beside him. “Bifur and I used to trek down together, our wares sharing one cart.”

“Dale was a very profitable town,” Balin added. “The emissaries of kings and lords--both Mannish and Elven--would stay in the well-appointed inns as they sought our crafts, as did the few sons of Men we accepted as apprentices inside our Mountain.”

“Men apprenticed in the Mountain?” Ori asked, his brown eyes wide in surprise.

“Oh yes,” Dori chuckled. “Not very many, mind. But back then, the Mountain was the center of trade for all of northern Rhovanion, and much beyond besides, and the craftsmen with the most promise clamoured to be allowed to sit at our masters’ feet.”

“The Mountain overflowed with gold and gems,” Glóin put in, smiling to himself. “I recall brokering several highly profitable contracts with the Elves of Rivendell, once upon a time.” At Billa’s openly curious face, he elaborated. “Elrond came searching for a jeweler to craft brooches for his sons, after their mother sailed over the sea, many years past.”

“You made the broaches that the twins were wearing?” Billa gasped; Glóin smiled into his pipe. “They were exquisite!”

Glóin just inclined his head, settling back away from the fire a bit as Balin took up the thread of memories once more. “The entire region was full of life, and wealth, and of markets selling the most marvelous and beautiful things.”

“Aye. Whatever good and beautiful thing that could be wished for by man or woman of any race could desire was for sale. And the toy market of Dale,” Dori added with a twinkle in his eye and a smile for Bifur. “Was the wonder of more than one child’s eye.”

“That’s what I remember, then,” Bofur said, wonderingly. “The toys, at least.”

“ **It-tesâk amahi** ,” Bifur put in, smiling at his youngest cousin. “ **Ayud gal’ith hikhthuzul**.”

Bofur flushed. “I was a wee one!” he protested. “Bombur weren’t much bigger!”

Billa gazed around the dwarves as they argued playfully amongst themselves. “How many remember the Mountain?” she asked Balin quietly.

Balin surveyed the Company for a moment. “Óin and I found our **tarbu** together,” he said thoughtfully. “We likely have the most memories of Erebor, though Óin knows Her slopes far better than I.” He gave a soft smile to the hobbit. “If you can ever get him to talk, he spent much time growing healing herbs and studying their effects.”

“A dwarf, growing things?” she asked, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “And here I thought not a one of you possessed a green thumb!”

Balin chuckled, continuing. “Dori was younger than Óin or I, but still of age and beginning the practice of his Craft before we were forced to leave. Glóin, Thorin, and Dwalin were not quite adults, but they each spent some happy years living within Her great majesty.” He narrowed his eyes at the happily bickering Urs and Ris. “The younger sons of Mistress Rís were born on the journey, I believe?” 

“Aye,” Dori beamed fondly at his younger brother, who was settled back, smoking his pipe. “Nori was the first bairn born after we -- left.” His expressive blue eyes shadowed for a moment, but Dori shook it off. “He gave us all hope.”

Nori looked mildly uncomfortable, and blew a supremely unimpressed smoke ring at his elder brother; Dori coughed, waving it away. “Bofur was the youngest of us in the Mountain.”

“Not that I really ‘member the Mountain, just yet,” Bofur remarked, a little morosely.

“ **Oblit** ,” Bifur pointed out.

“Oh, aye, I can recall some of those early carvings I made,” Bofur replied. “Only I must not have ever looked up from it to see where it was I was carvin’!” He laughed, and more than one dwarf joined in.

“Wait until the day you you see Her halls once more,” Balin assured him with a smile. “And you’ll find you have more memories of Her than you thought.”

Thorin cleared his throat. “That day will be tomorrow.” His gaze rested on each dwarf individually. “Nobility has been given many meanings over the ages of this world, but none is truer, to my mind, than loyalty, honor, and a willing heart. Such nobility each of you have shown, keeping true to vows all others shrank from.” His eyes lightened with pride. “For that, you will be honored when I sit the Throne of Erebor. And you, Biliana, for making this journey alongside us.” His dark blue eyes lingered on the hobbit, who pinked beneath his regard.

“We’ve still got a distance to go,” Dwalin grunted, breaking the moment, and Balin couldn’t see a reason why his brother would be so dour this evening, so filled with hope and happy memories.

Thorin gazed at Dwalin, for a beat longer than usual, but his visage slowly softened into a wry smile. “He is right. Get some sleep tonight, all of you,” he said, eyes returning to their halfling. “Dwalin, take first watch.”

With that, the Company settled in for the night, anticipation lingering in the air.

###### 

Progress the next day was slower than expected. Seeing their homeland so desolate was even more dispiriting than the dwarves had anticipated. Again, Balin was made grateful for Tharkûn’s choice in burglar; his niece remained alert and, if not eager, more spirited and focused than her dwarrow companions. She often asked to borrow the map from Thorin, which never failed to earn a soft if increasingly bemused smile from the king. Her resolve seemed to strengthen Thorin’s, and together the led the search for secret ways to approach the base of the Mountain. Seeing them together brought a curious mix of pleasure and pride to Balin’s heart, and even the bleak dead landscape around them could no longer fully depress his spirits.

His brother, on the other hand, seemed more dour than his usual wont. Balin noted how Thorin’s solicitous comments to their little burglar were met with a deeply furrowed brow from Dwalin, and wondered at the cause.

“Billa, lass, what’s troubling you?” Dwalin rumbled, his sharp eyes catching the slight wince the hobbit was trying so hard to hide. Balin looked to their niece in alarm.

“Nothing,” she replied firmly, but her features remained slightly drawn. Balin frowned.

Dwalin nudged his pony up beside her. “Lass,” he said sternly.

Making a moue of submission, Billa admitted, “I’ve got a bit of a headache. Would it be terribly inappropriate to take my braids down for a bit?”

Dwalin’s booming laugh caught the hobbit by surprise. “Not at all,” he replied.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Billa said, and as her red-brown hair came tumbling down around her shoulders, catching their king’s eyes. Balin caught sight of Dwalin scowling at Thorin’s intent gaze. The King’s eyes narrowed, annoyance slipping across his face before settling on amusement, and he returned his attention to the Mountain.

Balin reached across from his pony to pat the hobbit’s hand. “Not every dwarf prefers to always bind his, or her, hair.” He smiled fondly at her. “It is a common habit, to be sure, but there is no shame or scandal for wearing your hair undone. Truly, my dear, should you choose to stay in Erebor for long, I daresay your newfound position and wealth will bring many a dwarrow lady to follow your lead.” The conversation lapsed as the track narrowed, urging their ponies into a single file line.

The eventual widening of the path allowed Balin to ride beside Biliana once more to respond to the questioning expression she had given him. “Even forgetting any of your personal accomplishments or charms,” he mused, “your possession of a significant portion of Thrór’s treasure will command significant respect.”

Biliana blinked, as if just recalling a startling fact. With astonishment, Balin realized she had quite forgotten her contract promised her a significant share of the treasure. He shook his head with a wry chuckle. 

“I for one, my dear, think you have more than earned your thirteenth share already, even before any deeds you may yet do.” he couldn’t resist a sly look at Thorin, who was gazing at their hobbit with a gentle look upon his visage.

“Were it in my power,” Balin continued while keeping one eye on his unamused king, “I would give you riches beyond description upon reclaiming the Mountain. But many might fairly distrust my partiality.”

Billa blushed rosily. 

“I have earned your esteem, enough for you to even offer me kinship,” she answered. “And -- I hope -- the trust and friendship of all this Company. That is rich enough reward for any hobbit.”

“Well said!” cheered Fili. “Though, truly, ought to consider greater marks of appreciation for our most excellent burglar, for we shall all soon have more than we ought know how to use.”

“Speak for yourself!” laughed Kili. “I know exactly how I plan on using my share of the gold!”

“Really?” asked the elder brother indulgently. “And what would that be?”

“Melt it down to make a herd of oliphants, of course!” 

“A herd of golden oliphaunts?” Billa repeated, her eyes merry.

“Yes! With eyes of great gemstones!” Kili enthused, grinning. “Life-like in look and size, of course. We could get teams of goats to drag them around, and I would ride on top!”

“That would hardly be an efficient means of travel,” Balin said, fighting a laugh. Kili shrugged.

“I’ll be a prince in the greatest of the Dwarrowholds; I think a little inefficiency will be acceptable.” he sniffed with pretend haughtiness. His demeanor soon broke, and all the Company gave themselves over to laughter.

###### 

Unfortunately, the grimness of the land and task before them did not allow their merriment to linger. No autumn leaves danced in the mountain-winds; the few stunted trees clinging to life had not yet released their small crumbled leaves. No birds nested in their thin branches, no creatures large or small wandered beneath their shade. Nothing of emerald hue could be seen anywhere.

Little by little, the Company’s cautious path took them through the Mountain’s foothills, and slowly hints of the dwarven kingdom before them began to appear. Very slowly, Balin realized, as if Thorin were purposely slowing their approach. Though whether that be dread of pain or fear of discovery, the old warrior did not know.

For the dwarrowfolk of old had chosen their stronghold with care. There was a point beneath the Mountain at which all paths transversable by man, elf, beast, or dwarf became visible to the watchful vigil of the Gates. Balin might doubt the vigilance of a beast long secure in its stolen lair, but the approach, as the dwarves called the spot, remained a perilous landmark on their Quest. 

Inevitably, they came to the approach, where they must see the Gates and risk being seen. Even so, the fateful spot crept closer and closer, even as the mists of the cold autumn lake-air mixed with a foul-scented steam sludging down from the Mountain to conceal the path. Such conditions might serve them, as well, to avoid detection if the Worm kept guard, but it was not pleasant. Biliana shivered in her coat, and everyone sought to cover their noses against the smell.

Another hour passed, and the mist receded, though the steam remained. But it had thinned, like that from a kettle now removed from the stovetop. It had cleared away almost entirely just as the glorious sight of the Mountain Gates welcomed the dwarrowfolk home. 

At that moment, all other thought flew from their minds. If the dragon was spying from the high perches the dwarrow did not note him, so lost were the dwarves of Thorin’s Company in the longed-for vision of their stolen home.

But they dared not linger long within sight of Erebor’s front doors, but visible they need be to seek the hidden path up to the secret door promised by the old king’s map.They dismounted from their ponies, attempting to remain inconspicuous, though such a term is rarely justly applied to Mahal’s children. They fanned out along the northern ridges of the approach, seeking a side path up. Kili paused, mouth agape, staring at one of the titanic statues framing the Gates. Balin took a step towards the prince, to refocus his attention before his uncle noticed his distraction, the lad spun around, eyes alight.

“I found it!” he hissed, audible and yet not loud. “I found it!” He turned back to the statue, pointed wildly with one finger.

Indeed, Balin realized with wide eyes, he had. The geometric patterns along the statue’s base disguised a steep stairway, leading up, up all the way to the guard’s stone helm, where a path, now that Balin looked to see it, led off towards the mountain-face.

“You have keen eyes,” Thorin praised his younger nephew, squeezing the lad’s shoulder. Then he frowned. “We will not be able to take the ponies that way; Bombur, take them around back behind the Mountain and wait for our summons to the Gate.” 

The largest dwarf nodded, not hiding his relief at avoiding the climb before them. The others went for their packs, though Thorin took Billa’s before she could..

“The path ahead will be difficult enough for you, little burglar,” the king told her in a gentle tone, “without carrying your weight again upon your back.”

Biliana blushed, but did not argue, and Balin thought she looked pleased. Dwalin crossed his arms but did not argue.

The climb took some time, and the numerous pauses were not wholly for Billa’s sake. Still, they reached the top of the statue before the sun was more than halfway through her daily descent, and the moon could just be seen over the horizon.

There, they found what looked like rough steps curving upwards along the southern ridge. On they trudged, clinging to the rocky wall when the path grew narrow with narry an inch between the edges of boots and a drop into the valley below. Finally, the path opened up again, transitioning smoothly into an open bay, with patches of grass and moss for a floor and the sky for a roof. At the opposite end was a flat wall, smoother than the stone-face around it, and straight for several feet taller than the largest among them. Otherwise, there was nothing. Still, in his heart, Balin did not doubt they had found the keyhole.

Nori went to search, Dwalin following -- most likely to break down the door with his own stubbornness -- but Biliana stopped them.

“The map was vague about many things, but the moment of the door’s appearance was not one of them!” she reminded her dwarrow. “Be patient, and wait. When the last light draws near, we will all need to be alert.”

Thorin nodded, silently commanding his subjects to follow her instructions. Patience does not come naturally to dwarves save in crafting, and the added anxiety of the situation lead several to pace the small landing (which Billa soon named the doorstep). Some, however, remained tranquil: Ori worked on his manuscript; Bofur took a nap. Billa talked quietly with Thorin, leaning against the rock-face nearest the path they had taken up. Balin kept his eyes, as much as possible, tracing the progress of the heavenly bodies above them.

The Sun was fiery red, her hue bleeding onto the pale of the Moon. Closer and closer they came to each other, the Sun bowing to meet the Moon’s reaching. Their dance continued until finally their lights mingled and they appeared almost to embrace. Little could distract Fudin’s oldest son from the beautiful sight, save the vision of the mingled light dancing in his niece’s hair.

Biliana rose suddenly, the fluid motion jarring in the stillness. She turned her gaze to the mountain face, the light of the sun and moon still caught in her hair like flaming gems. She pointed with excited energy, breaking Balin’s attention from the striking sight of her flowing hair. He followed her finger to a small bird knocking a snail against the stone. Suddenly, he understood.

“Is that…” he heard himself ask.

“A thrush.” his niece answered, a smile splitting her face. “Thorin! Hurry, hurry!”

Even as she spoke, a thin shaft of light traveled down, down the mountain face, coming to rest three feet above the ground. Their king came to the stone, key in hand. He pressed the key against the light-spot, and in it slide, finding its home in an invisible lock. Breath caught and hearts paused. Thorin turned his hand.

The sounds of heavy tumblers shifting brought a slow, hopeful grin to Balin’s lips, even as tears began to stream down his face. Thorin released the key, and brought both hands up to press against the door. A moment, a groan, and the door gave way. And the dwarrow of Durin’s folk looked back into their Mountain home for the first time since the coming of Smaug.

Thorin took a stumbling step into the corridor before them. There was no pride weighing down his form; even from behind, Balin could see the raw grief, longing, and relief warring within him.The white-haired advisor followed his king inside, the other dwarrow close behind. Only Biliana remained outside on the doorstep, watching the silent procession with teary gaze.

Hands pressed against well-remembered stone. Shoulders bumped in solidarity, and no face remained dry. No words were spoken for many minutes, the sheer emotion of the moment robbing them of any voice.

Slowly, Biliana followed them in, coming to press her hand in the crook of Thorin’s arm, where he stood before the sole carving in the passageway. He covered her hand with one of his, and his visage lightened as he gazed down upon her.

Voice returned to the dwarrowfolk, and tearful exclamations and sharp barks of incredulous laughter filled in the corridor in turn, though always more softly than was the wont of dwarven expression. Eyes glanced down into the shadows often, and ears remained alert for any sound in the depths below.

Balin came to where his king and niece stood together, eyes filling afresh with tears as he noted the carving before them.

“What is it?” Biliana asked in low tones, and Thorin stiffened. She opened her mouth again, most likely to apologize for Thorin’s sudden upset, when Glóin answered her.

“The Arkenstone, lass. The greatest single gift the Mountain ever gave,” His awe-filled tone faded into scorn. “And the refuge of a thousand cowards.”

“It was seen as the crown jewel in the King’s treasury,” Balin explained. “And was a symbol of the King, much like his Raven Crown or Durin’s crest, but after the fall -- the King tried to rally the Seven Families around him, make them stand by their oaths, to help him take back Erebor. And they used the Arkenstone to justify their refusal.”

Dear Billa started. “A dwarf refusing an oath? What --”

“They said they weren’t refusing any oath,” Dwalin grumbled. “Hid behind words, the filthy cowards.”

“Upon our beards and our blades, our honor and our love,” Glóin intoned, “we swear, for ourselves and all our kin, living and yet to live, undying fealty to the King Under the Mountain, he who holds in his crafty hands the Arkenstone; may our cheeks be smooth and our hands weak if we fail in our oaths to any son of the line of Thráin, heir of Durin First-Formed, who sits upon his carven throne. His face contorted as he finished. “Bah. They said it didn’t apply, as Thrór neither possessed the Arkenstone nor sat upon the throne of the king. Said the same to Thráin, and...” he paused.

“And to me,” Thorin said quietly but not softly. “When I came before them not one month before our journey together began.”

Biliana met his eyes with a sure gaze.

“And that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

###### 

**Translations:**  
 **Adjân** : hope  
 **Adruf zelaf-hû** : Pidgin. Sentence: **Adruf hû mahadrulni ahu zelaf** ; “kill him in his bed”  
 **Amad** : mother  
 **Durthurathkh** : Dourhands  
 **Id-manaru tesâk** : Market of toys  
 **Kakhuf inbarathrag** : goat-excrement  
 **Kharmel** : True Name; the inner name that is kept secret from all but close kin and closer friends   
**Oblit** : art/skill/ability of the wood  
 **Ruk’dad** : Uncle, informal  
 **Sigun’adad** : grandfather, formal  
 **Tarbu** : Craft


End file.
